The Softest Ache of Silence

I press my palm against the glass, and for a moment, the boundary between my skin and the world dissolves into a shivering hum. Outside, the city is a frantic machine of gears and noise—cars bleeding into gray streaks, people rushing toward destinies they haven't yet learned to love. But inside this pocket of light, time has curdled like cream in coffee. I am suspended here, caught between the breath I just took and the one I am afraid to release.

My reflection watches me back with eyes that seem too large for my face, a pale ghost in a white dress that feels less like clothing and more like a sanctuary made of lace and longing. I want to shatter the glass, to let the roar of the street drown out the terrifying clarity of my own solitude. Yet, I stay still. There is a warmth blooming in my chest—a slow-burning ember sparked by the memory of your hand against mine, a touch so light it felt like an apology for every word we never spoke.

The city keeps moving, indifferent to the way my heart fractures under the weight of its beauty. But in this quiet corner, I am learning to breathe underwater. I am letting the silence crush me until it becomes a shape I can carry. One day, I will walk into that blur of light and find you, but for now, I will simply exist in the ache—a soft, white ripple in an ocean of glass.

Editor: Deep Sea