The Temperature of a Lingering Glance

The steam rises in ghosts against the gray stone of the bathhouse, blurring the line between my skin and the air. I close my eyes, letting the water settle like a heavy silk veil over my shoulders. Outside, the city hums—a distant vibration of steel and ambition—but here, time dissolves into droplets.

I can still feel your fingers tracing the curve of my jaw last night, a ghost-touch that hasn't quite faded. It was in the half-light of your apartment, where the shadows stretched like ink across the floorboards. We didn't speak much; words are too heavy for such delicate moments. Instead, we let our breaths mingle in the space between us.

Now, as I sink deeper into the warmth, I imagine you are standing just beyond the mist. Your presence is a smudge on my memory, a soft-focus silhouette that pulls me toward something unsaid. Is it love? Or just the way your gaze lingered on my lips before you turned away? The water warms my chest, but it cannot reach the hollow space where you left me. I am suspended here, caught between the reality of this bath and the infinite possibility of what we might have been if we hadn't let the sun rise.

Editor: The Unfinished