The Warmth Behind the Mirror

The city hums outside, but here the air is still. I lift my phone, and the glass catches only me — not the tired woman from the subway, not the one who answered emails in a cold office. Just this soft pink light on my skin, just my own quiet heartbeat.
I do not pose for anyone. I pose to remember that I am allowed to be gentle with myself. The chain at my throat is cool; the warmth is mine alone, slow and low, like an ember refusing to die in winter.
He will come home soon. He always finds me here, breathing, alive, a little luminous. And when his hand touches my shoulder, I will not say anything. A touch is enough. The whole day will heal in that single silence.

Editor: Pure Linen