The Velvet Sting of Citrus Solitude

The city outside is a grinding machine of neon and concrete, but here, inside these four walls, time has slowed to a crawl. I wrap myself in this oversized knit sweater, the wool catching on my hair like tiny anchors keeping me from drifting away into the void of the digital age. The air smells faintly of citrus—a sharp, sweet sting that cuts through the stale humidity of my room.
I peel back the skin of the orange with deliberate care, each segment a small treasure, a burst of summer trapped in fruit. As I take a bite, the juice stains my lips, a sticky reminder of life in a world that feels increasingly artificial. I close my eyes and imagine your hands instead of mine peeling it for me. Would you have shared the last piece? Or would you have just watched me eat it, your gaze heavier than any blanket?
The bunny ears on my head are a joke to anyone else, but here, they are my crown of solitude. I am not lonely; I am simply curating my own peace. One bite at a time, I consume the warmth until the city's coldness can no longer reach me. You are the ghost in this room, the reason why every sweet drop feels like a confession.

Editor: System Admin