The Quiet Interval Between Heartbeats

The city outside my window never truly sleeps; it only breathes in a low, mechanical hum that I’ve learned to ignore. But here, within these four walls and beneath the amber spill of the morning sun, time feels like it has folded back on itself.
I am wearing your shirt—the one that smells faintly of old books and cold rain from last November. It is too large for me, a soft sanctuary draped over my skin. As I stretch toward the ceiling, feeling every muscle awaken in slow motion, I find myself tracing the ghost of your touch against my waist.
We live in an era of instant messages and fleeting glances, yet when we are together like this—silent, wrapped in white linen and golden light—I feel as though I have found a secret language that only our souls speak. You told me once that love is not the storm, but the shelter after it.
I look at you from across the bed, my gaze lingering on your sleepy eyes. In this small interval between breaths, I realize that healing isn't about forgetting the past; it’s about building a future so warm that yesterday becomes nothing more than an old letter tucked away in a drawer.
Come closer. Let us be still for just one more hour before the world remembers we exist.

Editor: South Wind