The Quiet Blue Between Us

The city always hums with an impatience I cannot share. For years, I dressed myself in layers of expectations—stiff fabrics and polished smiles that felt like armor against the world.
But when he looks at me, it is as if time slows to a graceful rhythm. We are standing on this distant ridge, far above the neon noise of our lives. He doesn't speak; he simply watches how the mountain light catches in my eyes and rests his hand lightly upon my waist. The touch is fleeting, yet heavy with everything we have left unsaid over late-night coffees and shared silences.
I wear this black lace not to be seen by many, but to feel myself being known by him. There is a quiet thrill in the way he lingers on the curve of my shoulder before pulling me closer—a slow burn that feels more like healing than desire. In his gaze, I am no longer just another face in the urban tide; I am home.
He whispers something into the breeze about 'forever,' and for once, a word so grand does not feel hyperbolic. It simply feels right.

Editor: Grace