The Bloom I Wore to Forget the Rain

I remember the afternoon the city rained so hard it blurred every window into a watercolor. I was still wearing the grey of my commute, the tiredness of a thousand unanswered messages from him who never came home. So I stood here, in this quiet marble temple of light, and let the water run until the salt left my skin.

When I finally lifted my gaze to the mirror, it was not the woman who had walked out that morning staring back. It was someone softer. Someone who had decided, at last, to bloom again. The roses on my swimsuit were not just fabric; they were a promise I made to myself in the hush of an empty bathroom. A secret confession whispered to glass.

I held the phone up like a lantern against the grey. And for one breathless moment, time dissolved. I was no longer waiting for his text, no longer counting the days between us. I was simply warm, whole, and beautifully alive in the soft glow of my own reflection.

Editor: South Wind