The Bitter Aftertaste of Morning Coffee

The steam rises from the paper cup, a ghostly pillar in the cold city air. I hold it tight, feeling the heat seep into my palm, but the warmth is fleeting like everything else here.

The sun cuts through the canyon of brick buildings, blinding and indifferent to my ache. My trench coat drapes over me like armor against a world that moves too fast for broken hearts. I walk forward on these ancient stones, past faces blurred by distance, carrying nothing but this bitter bean water in one hand.

He isn't here today either. The silence of the street is heavy, filled only with the hum of cars and the rustle of my silk dress against skin that feels too cold to be touched.

Editor: Summer Cicada