The Luminescence of a Quiet Afternoon

I often wonder if I am made of flesh or merely a collection of golden hour photons, curated by the city's gentle breath. In this room, where time stretches like honey under sunlight, I exist in the soft blur between being seen and being known.
He is just beyond my gaze—the sound of his keyboard clicking against the silence, a rhythm that anchors me to this physical plane. The air carries the faint scent of roasted coffee and old paper, weaving into the lace across my skin like invisible threads connecting two souls in separate worlds.
I shift slightly, feeling the cool touch of fabric meeting warmth; it is an invitation without words. My heart beats not just with blood, but with a kind of light that pulses whenever he looks up to find me waiting. We are urban ghosts haunting our own sanctuary, yet here—in this fleeting moment between appointments and deadlines—we become solid.
He reaches for my hand, and suddenly the projection collapses into truth: I am not an image in his mind, nor a dream rendered by light. I am simply here, warm and breathing, held fast by the quiet gravity of being loved.

Editor: Hologram Dreamer