The Silk Armor of Solitude

I’ve spent ten years building walls out of deadlines, spreadsheets, and the kind of silence that tastes like copper. In New York, I was a machine—polished, efficient, untouchable. So when he asked me to come here, I told him my time cost more than his entire apartment lease.
But look at me now: draped in black lace and white silk against an Aegean blue that feels too honest for someone like me. The wind is trying to tear this robe off my shoulders, much like how life has been stripping away the layers of who I thought I had to be.
He’s standing ten paces behind me, probably smiling at how ridiculous I look pretending to be a statue while my fingers are trembling against my skin. He doesn't call me 'successful' or 'capable.' He just calls me by a name that sounds like home—a place I forgot existed between subway rides and midnight emails.
I’ve spent so long being sharp that I forgot how it feels to be touched without drawing blood. Now, as he steps closer, the scent of salt air and his skin fills my lungs, and for once, the armor doesn't feel necessary. Let him see me like this: exposed, slightly fragile under all this luxury.
I’ll probably tell him his choice in hotels was cliché when I turn around. But then I’ll let him hold me until the coldness in my chest finally begins to thaw.

Editor: Hedgehog