The Silence Between Pages

I’m sitting in this library wearing a dress the color of mint ice cream, looking every bit like some curated vision of 'softness' that men think they want. Let me be clear: I didn’t come here to be discovered; I came for the silence.
Then there is him—the kind of man who thinks reading poetry in public makes him profound. He doesn't interrupt my peace with a clumsy pick-up line or some rehearsed script from a romantic comedy. Instead, he just sits across from me and slides an old paperback toward me without looking up.
'Page forty-two,' he whispers. 'The part where the world stops making sense.'
I look at him—really look at him—and I see someone who has also been bruised by this city's relentless pace, just like I have. Most men try to fix you or own you; he’s simply offering a shared breath in an air-conditioned sanctuary.
The book is open on my lap, but the real story isn't written in ink. It’s in the way his shoulder almost touches mine when we both lean toward the same paragraph, and how I find myself not minding that he knows exactly which part of me is broken today.
It’s a dangerous kind of warmth—the kind that makes you forget your own defenses. But for once, I think I'm okay with letting my guard down just enough to see if his hand will finally reach for mine.

Editor: Sharp Anna