The Echo of Your Laughter in Empty Rooms

Dust motes danced in the afternoon sun, just like they did in that little cafe in Kyoto. He'd hated the matcha latte, said it tasted like grass, but he’d smiled at me with such warmth as he watched me enjoy mine.
I traced the grain of the wooden dresser, remembering his hands on my skin. The light catches the same way here too, doesn't it? It feels… familiar.
It had been a fleeting encounter, two souls brushing against each other in a foreign land. A stolen week of whispered confessions and shared silences. Now all that remains is this ache, a phantom limb of a love I barely tasted.
Sometimes, when the city noise fades, I swear I can still hear his laughter echoing through these empty rooms. And for a moment, just a single heartbeat of a moment, the loneliness doesn't feel so vast. It’s almost… comforting.
I wonder if he ever thinks about us? Or am I just clinging to ghosts and chasing shadows in this sun-drenched solitude?

Editor: Traveler’s Log