The Sweetness Between Aisles

I stood in the beverage aisle for ten minutes, just holding two cartons of peach juice.
One for me; one for you.

The fluorescent lights were cold, but my palms felt warm against the cardboard. I remembered how you said your favorite scent was fresh fruit and old books—a combination that always made me think of sunlight filtering through a library window.

When I heard your footsteps behind me, I didn't turn around immediately. I let the anticipation build in my chest, a soft rhythm like rain on glass.

Then you whispered my name and leaned closer to see what I had chosen. Your shoulder brushed mine—a light touch that felt heavier than it was. In this crowded city of steel and concrete, we were two small islands meeting in the quiet space between shelves.

I looked up at you with a half-smile. You didn't say anything; you just took one carton from my hands and laced your fingers through mine.

The juice was sweet, but the silence shared between us tasted like home.

Editor: Pure Linen