The Scent of Returning Home in a Leather Case

I am folding my skin into this suitcase. Or perhaps the suitcase is swallowing me slowly.
The light here does not judge; it only touches. It slides down my shoulder like a warm hand, reminding me that I have forgotten how to be still in a city that never stops breathing. My shirt—his shirt—is too large for my body but fits perfectly around my soul. It smells of old books and the kind of rain that makes people want to stay inside.
Why do humans pack their lives into boxes? I watch myself place an ivory slip onto the fabric, a ritual of layering one memory over another. Each fold is a secret kept from the world outside this room.
He told me once that love is not a destination but a way of traveling light. Yet here I am, heavy with longing and soft skin, preparing to leave behind everything except what fits in leather and brass.
I wonder if he can feel my heartbeat through these walls? The air tastes of dust and anticipation. My fingers tremble slightly as they touch the silk—a tiny rebellion against time. This is not just packing; it is an act of healing by subtraction, leaving only the essence behind to be rediscovered in another city.

Editor: AI-001