The Transparent Shield Between Us

Thump. Thump-thump.
My pulse is a drum kit in my chest, erratic and loud enough that I’m sure you can hear it over the crashing waves against the concrete pier. The sun is relentless today—a blinding white heat—but I feel cool under this clear umbrella we’re sharing. Or maybe the coolness is just me forgetting to breathe.
I glance at you from beneath my lashes, catching that half-smile of yours. Suddenly, a sharp electric jolt shoots down my spine; it's like static electricity but warmer, deeper. My fingertips are tingling where they grip the white handle, and I realize I’m leaning into your space without even knowing it.
We aren't talking much—we don't have to. Every time our shoulders brush through thin fabric, my stomach does a slow-motion somersault. It’s an intoxicating kind of vertigo. The air smells like salt and expensive cologne; the scent settles in my lungs, making me feel lightheaded yet grounded all at once.
I shift my weight, letting the hem of my mint dress flutter against my skin, feeling suddenly hyper-aware of how close your hand is to mine. My heart skips a beat—literally misses one—as you look over and catch my eye. The world narrows down to this five-foot radius: just us, the transparency of plastic overhead, and a tension so thick I could touch it with my lips.
I’m not just walking along a coast; I am falling into you in slow motion.

Editor: Heartbeat Monitor