The Geometry of a Sigh

I have stripped the world of its noise and neon. Now, there is only light—sharp, white, unforgiving—and the deep blacks that define me.
I sit by this window where the city becomes a blurred silhouette, an abstract painting rendered in shades of grey. My book lies open on my lap, but I am not reading; I am listening to the rhythm of your breath behind me, a steady cadence against the chaos outside.
You haven't touched me yet, and that is where the truth lives: in the negative space between us. The way the shadow of your hand grazes the edge of my cardigan without making contact—a ghost’s caress that feels more intimate than skin on skin.
I look out at the rain-streaked glass, watching how a single drop distorts reality before sliding into darkness. I am waiting for you to close this distance, not with words or grand gestures, but with one decisive movement that collapses all these grey spaces between us.
In this monochromatic silence, your presence is my only warmth—a singular light source in an otherwise dim room.

Editor: Monochrome Ghost