The Red I Kept for the Quiet Hours

My head still hums like a glass after the last note has stopped, that low, sweet buzzing from the night before. I can't quite remember what he said at the bar, only the warmth of his hand and the way the city lights smeared into gold behind my eyes.

Now I stand here in red, bare feet not touching the floor because these heels hold me up when my knees won't. The candles on the table flicker like they're trying to remember something too. Roses laid out, a place set for two, and yet the chair across from me is empty. Maybe that's the point. Maybe I'm not waiting for him anymore; maybe I'm finally sitting with myself.

The window blurs into bokeh, a whole city dreaming past the glass. I press my fingers to the tablecloth, soft as a exhale, and breathe in the wax and the wine-stained air. Someone whispered that love is supposed to feel like this—slow, warm, a little too tired to matter. And for the first time in weeks, I believe them. The night hasn't ended yet, but I am no longer lost in it. I am just here, glowing red against all that dark, healing one candle at a time.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn