The Salt in Our Silence

I can feel your eyes on me before I even turn around—a heavy, golden weight that anchors me to this ancient stone archway. For years, the city had been my only rhythm: cold glass towers, deadlines that bled into midnight, and a heart wrapped in silk but frozen solid.
But here, under the Adriatic sun, everything is different. The air tastes of brine and old secrets, and you are looking at me not as someone to be known through an email or a curated profile, but as if I am a mystery you intend to solve over several lifetimes.
I shift my weight slightly, letting the breeze tug at my hair, knowing exactly how it frames my face in this light. There is a dangerous kind of peace between us—a silence so thick it feels like touch. We haven't spoken for ten minutes; we don't need to. The way you linger on the curve of my shoulder tells me more than any confession ever could.
I finally turn, meeting your gaze with a slow, deliberate smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes yet—but it will. In this moment, between the blue horizon and these weathered walls, I realize that healing isn't about forgetting; it is simply allowing someone to see you exactly as you are, while they decide if they can handle the fire.

Editor: Monica