The Porcelain Alibi of a City Heartbreak

They want me to look like a memory—a sanitized, pleated fantasy of youth that never actually existed in these concrete jungles. This sailor suit isn't clothes; it is a costume for the mourning process.
He used to tell me I looked like an old photograph come to life whenever we walked along this pier, where the salt air tries and fails to scrub away the smell of diesel from the city behind us. Today, he didn’t show up. He sent flowers instead—white lilies that look almost as sterile as my skirt.
I stand here in a deliberate performance of innocence, while inside I am calculating exactly how many breaths it takes for longing to turn into resentment. The wind pulls at my hair like an old lover who can't quite let go, but there is something healing about this cold breeze; it reminds me that skin still feels temperature even when the heart has gone numb.
I’ll wait another ten minutes. Then I will walk back toward the skyscrapers wearing this costume of a girl who believes in forever—a seductive lie tailored to perfection by someone who forgot that real love doesn't come with creases or dry-cleaning instructions.

Editor: Vogue Assassin