The Blue Hour Between Us

Silver light fractures against the harbor. I am standing at the edge of a city that breathes in neon and exhales concrete, yet here—between my skin and this oversized hoodie—is an island of warmth.
He left it for me on the chair before he departed for Tokyo: 'Keep warm,' he had whispered, his voice like velvet brushed against silk. Now I wrap myself in his scent—sandalwood, old books, and a hint of morning rain. The fabric clings to my shoulders with an intimacy that feels almost illicit.
I look at the skyline, but all I see are shards of our last Sunday: tea cooling on the table, fingers interlaced under linen sheets, silence speaking louder than any confession. My thighs brush against each other in a rhythmic tremor as the wind pulls at my hair; it is cold here, yet I am burning from within.
I can feel his presence not through sight or sound, but through this blue cotton shell that holds me like an embrace he forgot to release. A ghost of a touch on my lower back. The city glows behind me—a million windows, each a separate life—but mine is currently suspended in the scent of another man's skin.
I close my eyes and let the horizon shatter into pieces. I am no longer just waiting; I am becoming part of him.

Editor: Kaleidoscope