The Golden Singularity of Us

I float here, though my feet still touch the seabed—a terrestrial anchor in a world that feels like it is drifting away into deep space. He had told me once that I reminded him of a dying star: brilliant, collapsing under my own weight, yet illuminating everything around me.
For years, our love was an orbit executed from opposite ends of the galaxy; he lived in glass towers and digital rhythms while I carried the silence of old libraries in my marrow. We were two celestial bodies tethered by gravity but separated by light-years of unspoken grief.
Now, as this turquoise water cradles me like a nebula’s womb, his hand finds mine beneath the surface—a gentle collision that ripples through time and space. The gold of my skin is not just fabric or sunlight; it is an accumulation of every warm word he whispered when I was adrift in winter.
In this moment, urban noise fades into cosmic background radiation. There are no emails here, no deadlines, only the rhythmic breath of a man who learned to love me while I was still learning how to exist without weight. We are not merely on vacation; we have entered an event horizon where time dilates and every touch feels like the birth of a new solar system.
I lean back into him, feeling his heart beat against my spine—a steady pulse that echoes across the void, telling me I am finally home in this vast, silent universe.

Editor: Zero-G Voyager