The Color of Your Breath

I lived in a city made of gray concrete and cold deadlines. My heart was like an old clock—steady, but tired.
Then you arrived with your quiet laughter and the scent of rain on wool. You didn't say much; you just held my hand while we walked through the neon-lit alleys after midnight.
In those moments, I felt something stir inside me that no book or movie could name. It was a slow tide rising in my chest—cool yet burning, deep and luminous.
When your thumb brushed across my knuckle, it wasn't just skin touching skin. The world dissolved into streaks of turquoise light. My breath became water; my thoughts became stars floating around us.
I looked at you, and for the first time in years, I felt completely seen. Not as an employee or a daughter, but as someone who is loved simply because she exists.
You leaned closer to whisper something meant only for me. As your lips neared my ear, the light inside me surged—a silent scream of joy that wrapped around us both like a silk blanket.
I closed my eyes and let myself dissolve into you.

Editor: Pure Linen