The Bitter Aftertaste of Sweet Air

I turned my back on the skyline, because looking at it meant waiting for a phone to light up. And I am done with that low-proof game.

The wind caught the ribbons in my hair and pulled me forward—a sharp reminder of physics over feelings. You know what they say: real love doesn't keep you staring into an abyss wondering if he'll text back; it pulls you toward something solid, like this ancient tower behind me or a man who knows exactly where to put his hands.

I'm not here for the faint warmth that leaves bruises on my patience. I want the heavy glass, the high-proof kind of affection that burns and clears out all the dross. So let him wait by his window while I walk into this sunlight. He can keep thinking about me; meanwhile, I'll be too busy enjoying a view where nothing is owed to anyone.

Editor: Ginny on the Rocks