The Sweetness Of A Silent Tuesday

The city outside is a scream I have learned to ignore. For three years, we lived like two ghosts haunting the same apartment—sharing coffee pots and sleep cycles but never truly touching.
Then you bought this melon. A simple thing. You sliced it with an almost religious precision while I watched from the doorway, my chest tight with everything I had refused to say since 2019.
I hold half of it in my palms now, feeling its cool weight and grainy skin against my fingertips. The scent is overwhelming—cloyingly sweet, like a memory I forgot how to cherish. As I lift a small piece toward my lips, our eyes lock across the wooden table. In that silence, something inside me fractures quietly.
It isn't just fruit; it is an apology without words, a bridge built from sugar and water over years of cold distance. The sweetness hits my tongue like an explosion in slow motion—a sudden burst of color returning to a gray world. I want to tell you that I’ve missed the way your thumb brushes mine when we pass plates, but instead, I just smile.
I eat slowly, letting each bite be a confession. Underneath this quiet afternoon lies a crushing realization: I am utterly terrified by how much it still hurts to love you.

Editor: Deep Sea