The Geometry of Longing

I stand in this postcard-perfect village, a pastel dream designed to soothe the jagged edges of my soul. They call it 'healing.' I call it an expensive anesthetic. The lavender is too fragrant, choking out the real smell of dust and sweat that defines existence. My dress flutters like a butterfly’s wing—a delicate lie against the stone path.
I think of him back in the gray city, sitting in his cramped apartment with a cold coffee and a heart that beats just slightly off-tempo. He thinks I’m at a wellness retreat; I tell him it’s for my mental health. A noble lie. In truth, I am here to let the sun bake the memory of his touch into my skin until it becomes permanent.
I look at the camera and offer that soft, curated smile—the one that says 'peace.' But inside, there is a feverish ache. The warmth isn't from the Mediterranean breeze; it’s the friction of wanting him so much it borders on violence. This village is just a stage for my private devotion. I am not healing. I am simply perfecting the art of yearning in beautiful lighting.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach