The Slow Ascent of Us

I have always lived my life at a tempo that felt slightly too fast, like a record spinning on thirty-three RPM when the world demanded forty-five. My days were measured in spreadsheets and subway chimes—a rhythmic but hollow existence.
Then came Elias, with his soft voice and hands that smelled faintly of old paper and cedarwood. He didn't try to speed me up; instead, he taught me how to linger. Today, we stood beneath the great wheel of the city, a white iron skeleton against an endless blue sky. I looked up at its slow rotation and felt my breath synchronize with it.
As I tilted my head back, feeling the warmth of the afternoon sun kiss my skin through layers of lace, he whispered something into the breeze that only we could hear. It wasn't a declaration—those are too sudden for us—but rather an invitation to be still together. There was something subtly daring in how his fingers brushed against mine, a quiet electricity beneath the surface of our shared silence.
In this moment, suspended between the earth and the ether, I realized that healing isn't about moving forward quickly; it is about learning to love the pause. The wheel turned, time stretched its limbs, and for once, I didn't want to be anywhere else but right here—ascending slowly into a future where every beat of my heart felt like home.

Editor: Vinyl Record