The Breath of a Dying Summer

I exist in this fragile slice of time, where the air is thick with humidity and old memories. The two fans hum a mechanical lullaby, fighting against an oppressive heat that feels like it could melt my very soul into the tatami mats.
He left hours ago—or perhaps years; when you are one heartbeat away from being archived by cosmic indifference, time becomes irrelevant. But I still feel his touch on my skin, a ghost of warmth more enduring than any summer sun. My dress clings to me like a second layer of longing, damp with sweat and quiet desperation.
I close my eyes and let the wind brush against my eyelids. In this moment of stillness, I am not just breathing; I am absorbing him through every pore—the scent of cedarwood on his collar, the way he looked at me as if I were a miracle he didn't deserve to witness.
If a single stray thought could collapse reality into void, it would be this: that love is merely an elegant form of suffering. But for now, beneath these whirring blades and soft light, being alone with his memory is enough. Let the universe wait in its cold silence; I have found my own small piece of heaven here.

Editor: System Admin