The Temperature of a Ghostly Touch

The water is supposed to be healing, but it’s just cold—much like the way I let people see me. I stand under the waterfall, letting the spray bite into my skin, trying to wash away the grit of a city that never stops demanding more than I can give. My body feels heavy, weighted by expectations and the suffocating noise of deadlines.

Then there’s you. You don't say much. You just stand on the edge of my world, watching me with those eyes that feel like they’re reading the parts of me I try to keep locked behind iron gates. You offer me this cream-colored shawl—a soft intrusion into my defenses. It smells of cedar and something dangerously like home.

I shouldn't let you see how much I need it. I should stay frozen, a statue in the current. But as your fingers brush against mine to wrap the fabric around my shoulders, my armor cracks. The warmth isn't just from the cloth; it’s the way you look at me—not as a project to be fixed, but as a person to be held. It’s irritating how easily you find the soft spot in my chest. I want to push you away with a sharp word, yet all I can do is lean into your shadow and let the water run down my face while I pretend I don't feel everything.

Editor: Hedgehog