The Cold Glass Between Us

Thump. Thump. My pulse is a drum kit in my chest, synchronized with the hum of this vending machine.
I’m leaning against cold metal and warm sunlight, but all I can feel is you standing three feet away—too far yet dangerously close. The air between us vibrates; it's thick, electric, heavy with everything we haven't said since Tokyo swallowed our youth whole.
You look at me. Not just see—look. And suddenly my skin prickles as if a thousand invisible needles are dancing across my shoulders. I lift the bottle to my lips, but the ice-cold glass doesn’t cool the fire creeping up my neck. My breath hitches; it's an uneven rhythm now, stuttering like old film.
You take one step forward. Just one. And there it is: that sudden drop in my stomach—the physiological freefall of a heart losing its grip on logic. I can hear the ocean behind us crashing against the shore, but it’s drowned out by the roar of blood rushing to my ears.
I don't drink. I just hold your gaze through the straw-brimmed shadow of my hat, feeling my pupils dilate and a slow, honeyed warmth bloom in my solar plexus. You aren't talking yet, but you’re already inside me—rewriting every heartbeat into an invitation.

Editor: Heartbeat Monitor