The Silence Between Our Pages

He never says 'I love you,' yet he fills the silence with gestures that linger like incense in a closed room. Today, it is the way he left my favorite book open on the mahogany shelf—precisely at page 142 where I had once whispered that this scene felt like home.
The golden slats of sunlight slice across me, but his presence remains an invisible weight against my skin, even though he is in another room. He moves through our apartment like a ghost who refuses to leave, leaving behind the scent of cedar and cold morning air. I can feel him watching from the threshold—not with eyes that demand attention, but with one that understands every sigh I’ve ever buried.
I trace my fingers over the paper, knowing he had touched this same page just moments before me. There is something dangerously intimate about being known in silence; a slow-burn attraction where no words are exchanged, yet everything has been confessed. He doesn't need to touch me to make me tremble—only his shadow crossing mine on the floor is enough to pull my breath away.

Editor: Shadow Lover