The Softest Edge of an Almost Evening

The rain outside has not stopped, and it is not really rain anymore; it is the city exhaling slowly through glass. I press my palm to my cheek and feel the warm pulse there, a small secret against the cold. My fingers drift into my hair, not styling, only searching for a boundary that refuses to hold.

He was here an hour ago, or perhaps he is still here; the door never quite closed in my mind. His thumb traced the collar of my pink camisole and left no mark, only a faint heat where skin remembers touch. I wore the cream knit cardigan over it like a second skin, as if warmth could be layered on top of longing.

We did not speak much. The city hummed its vague outline beyond the window, lights bleeding into fog, and in that blur I almost saw the future he offered; a Tuesday morning with two mugs, a shared silence that felt like breathing together. It is unfinished, of course. Realities never finish themselves.

So I stay in this threshold, hand on cheek, lips parted just enough to let the evening in. The healing was not his words but the way he looked at me as though I were a question he was glad not to solve yet.

Editor: The Unfinished