The Silence Between Our Footsteps

I can hear your breath behind me, a steady rhythm that competes with the rustle of bamboo leaves. You’re keeping pace—not too close to be intrusive, yet near enough that I can feel the heat radiating from you through my thin silk dress.
We haven't spoken for ten minutes, but this silence is louder than any conversation we've ever had in our glass-walled office downtown. It’s a game of inches and intentions. Every time your shoe brushes against a stone step, I wonder if it was an accident or a silent invitation to stop walking.
I let my dress catch the wind, swirling around my ankles like a soft secret. I know you're watching me—the way my hair dances across my shoulders, the slight tilt of my head as I pretend to admire the canopy above us. I’m leading you deeper into this green labyrinth, not because we are lost, but because I want to see how long it takes for your self-control to snap.
I stop abruptly and look back over my shoulder. The air between us is electric, thick with all the things we haven't dared to say since January. You don’t move forward; you simply stand there, eyes locked on mine, a small smirk playing at the corner of your lips—as if you know exactly what I'm doing.
I smile back and turn away again, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The chase is far more intoxicating than the catch.

Editor: Danger Zone