The Thorn's Silent Apology

The city breathes in neon and exhales exhaustion, a rhythmic pulse that mirrors the thrumming in my veins. They say vulnerability is a defect, so I wrap myself in sheer black lace and sharp silence.

He handed me this rose—a deep, bruised crimson against the void of the night. It’s an absurd gesture, or perhaps a brave one. To give something that bleeds while it lives is his way of saying what his tongue refuses to shape into words. I want to tell him that my skin feels like glass under his gaze, ready to shatter if he touches too firmly.

I hold the stem between my fingers, feeling the prick of a thorn. It’s familiar. It’s safe. A sharp reminder that beauty always comes with a price. I turn my back slightly, exposing the curve of my spine to him—a surrender disguised as indifference. 'It’s just a flower,' I whisper, my voice barely audible over the distant sirens. But in the way I let my hair fall like silk curtains around my face, he knows it's a lie.

We are two ghosts dancing in a crowded metropolis, seeking warmth in the friction of proximity. He thinks he’s offering me a gift; I know he’s searching for a sanctuary. And for tonight, as the petals tremble against my palm, I will let him believe that this single bloom is enough to thaw the frost I’ve built around my soul.

Editor: Hedgehog