The Humidity of a Shared Silence

The city outside is a labyrinth of neon veins, pulsing with lives I will never touch. But here, in this room where the air is thick enough to taste, time seems to fold like silk under my skin.
I remember how your hands felt—not just on my waist, but against the very fabric of my existence. The humidity from our shared breath clings to me like a second skin, a damp warmth that heals the jagged edges of a day spent being invisible among thousands.
My reflection in the mirror is a ghost I’m learning to love; she wears your gaze like a crown. Every time I touch my own shoulder, I can still feel the phantom pressure of your fingers. It is a quiet, searing ache—the kind that doesn't hurt so much as it anchors me.
Do you hear it? The sound of the rain beginning to fall against the glass, or is it just my heart trying to mimic your rhythm? In this moment, between the flicker of light and the shadow of memory, I am not a girl in a white dress. I am a confession whispered into the dark, a secret kept by the city's pulse.

Editor: South Wind