The Velvet Silence of Us

I’ve spent three years building a glass wall around myself in the city, polishing it until people could only see their own reflections and never me. I told everyone that love was just an inefficient exchange of emotional currency—a bad investment with high risk. Then he came along with his clumsy kindness and eyes that looked through my armor like it wasn't there.
He dragged me to this coast, away from the hum of servers and the smell of burnt espresso. He didn’t try to fix me; he just waited for me to stop fighting. Now I stand here beneath a tree that doesn’t care about my career or my curated persona. The air is thick with salt and something sweeter—his scent.
I close my eyes, letting the sun bite into my skin while wearing this emerald velvet bikini that feels like an invitation he hasn't quite dared to accept yet. I can hear him behind me, his breath unevenly rhythmic. He’s hesitant, afraid of triggering one of my sharp edges.
'You look... peaceful,' he whispers.
I want to tell him that peace is terrifying because it means there's nothing left to defend against. Instead, I lean back further into the bark and let out a sigh that sounds far too much like surrender. My heart beats against my ribs—not in fear, but with an ache so precise it feels like being known for the first time.

Editor: Hedgehog