The Gilded Silence Between Us

I have spent three years learning how to be invisible in a city that screams. I wore gray suits, spoke in measured tones, and kept my heart locked behind an iron door of professional courtesy.
But here, under this dying sun that spills liquid gold across the horizon, the armor finally cracks. The salt air tastes like old promises; it clings to my skin just as you have clung to my thoughts since that rainy Tuesday in a crowded subway station when we both reached for the same book on poetry.
I look at you—not with my eyes, but with every nerve ending I’ve spent years numbing. My gold bikini is an act of defiance; it is me saying 'Look at me,' while everything inside me whispers 'Please don't let go.'
You haven't said a word for ten minutes. You just watch the light catch my shoulder, and in that silence, I feel a tidal wave crashing against my ribs. It is not loud; it is an implosion—the sound of three years of loneliness collapsing into one singular moment of being seen.
I smile because if I don't, I might scream from how much I want you to touch me. The warmth on my skin is nothing compared to the heat radiating from your gaze—a slow-burn fire that threatens to consume every wall I’ve ever built.

Editor: Deep Sea