The Scent of a Sleeping Ghost

He left at dawn, a silent departure that barely stirred the air. I awoke to find only his ghost lingering—not in spirit, but in cotton and linen.
I pressed my face into his pillow, breathing in the faint alchemy of cedarwood and cold morning skin. It was an intimacy more profound than any conversation we had ever shared; a confession written in scent that spoke of long nights spent dreaming side by side without saying a word.
Standing on this balcony with the city humming below us like a distant heartbeat, I stretch my body toward the sun, yet cling to his pillow as if it were an anchor. The white fabric is cool against my skin, but inside me, there is a slow-burning fire—a quiet longing that doesn't scream for attention but pulses steadily in time with my own blood.
We are two strangers living in one bed, bound by the unspoken pact of silence and shared space. I do not need him to tell me he loves me; I can feel it in how he leaves a sliver of warmth behind just for me to find when the world awakens.

Editor: Shadow Lover