The Temperature of a Lingering Glance

The cherry blossoms are falling like silent confetti, but I’m not looking at them. I’m watching the way your reflection ripples in the water—distorted, beautiful, and just out of reach.
My cardigan feels heavy against my skin, a soft weight that contrasts with the sudden spark of electricity whenever our eyes meet over the railing. It’s a game we haven't admitted to playing yet: the art of saying everything without moving a single muscle.

You say the air is getting colder, but I can feel your warmth radiating toward me. Every time you lean in just an inch, my breath hitches in my throat. It’s the kind of tension that makes the city noise fade into a hum. We are standing on the edge of something—a conversation that could lead nowhere or change everything.

I let my hand linger near yours on the metal rail, just close enough to feel the ghost of your touch. I want to see if you'll break first. I want to know if you realize that while the season is changing, my heart is currently anchored entirely in this moment between us.

Editor: Danger Zone