The Scent of Sun-Soaked Cotton

I wore the dress fresh from the dryer, carrying that distinct, heavy warmth of linen soaked in afternoon sun. The air here tastes like cherry blossoms and wet pavement drying out after a storm. He told me once he loved the way I smelled—like clean laundry left on a line to catch the wind.

Holding these wildflowers feels less like an accessory and more like grounding myself before the city swallows us up again. His gaze, lingering from somewhere behind my shoulder, burns hotter than the spring light against my neck. We are just two things waiting to be folded away safely at home—soft fabrics and beating hearts in a world that never stops spinning.

Editor: Laundry Line