The Temperature of Silence

The city outside is a jagged mess of neon and noise, but in here, the air tastes of heavy silk and vintage red. I hold this glass like a shield—the only thing keeping the cold reality from spilling into my lap.

He’s not here yet. Or maybe he never was, just a ghost I invite to sit across from me in the shadows. My skin feels too tight, sensitized by the candlelight that flickers against my collarbone like a dying pulse. People call this loneliness; I call it a curated sanctuary.

I tell myself I don't need anyone. That my heart is a fortress with high walls and sharp spikes. But then the wine hits my tongue—bitter, warm, and devastatingly familiar—and for a second, the ice around my ribs thaws. I find myself reaching for a hand that isn't there, searching for a warmth that doesn't burn.

If you saw me now, you’d see a woman of steel in a dress of blood-red satin. You wouldn't know that beneath the poise and the steady gaze, I am shivering. I am waiting for someone to come into this room and tell me that it’s okay to let the walls down just once. Just for tonight.

Editor: Hedgehog