The Salt-Stained Silence Between Us

I’ve spent ten years building a fortress out of spreadsheets, cold coffee, and the kind of professional courtesy that feels like an insult. My life was a perfectly curated museum—beautiful to look at, but forbidden to touch.
Then he showed up with his crooked smile and that infuriating habit of asking 'Why?' when I’ve already given him my final answer. He didn't try to break down my walls; he just sat outside them in the rain until I got curious enough to open a window.
Now we are here, on this cliffside where the Mediterranean swallows the sun whole. The air tastes of salt and old promises. I can feel his gaze tracing the line of my back—a slow, deliberate map-making exercise that makes me want to shudder and lean in all at once.
I told him this trip was 'logistically necessary for mental recalibration.' A lie so polished it could be sold as a corporate philosophy. The truth is simpler: I am terrified of how much I need the warmth of his hand on my waist, grounding me before the wind pulls me into the blue void.
He doesn't speak. He knows that words are just another layer of armor for people who aren't ready to be seen. So we stand here in a silence so heavy it feels like touch—two broken cities trying to build one bridge between them.

Editor: Hedgehog