The Warmth Between Our Silence

I’ve spent three years building walls out of iron and sarcasm, making sure no one got close enough to see the cracks. My life in this city was a series of cold coffee mornings and polished deadlines—efficiently lonely.
Then you showed up with your clumsy kindness and that stupid habit of remembering how I take my tea. You didn't try to break down my walls; you just sat beside them until they felt like an unnecessary fence.
This afternoon, as the golden light spilled across the living room and caught me off guard, I looked at you—really looked at you—and realized my armor had become too heavy to wear. For a moment, the air between us tasted of cinnamon and unspoken promises.
I want to tell you that I hate how much I need this feeling. I want to say your smile is distracting and inconveniently perfect. But as you reached out to brush a stray hair from my forehead, all my sharp edges dissolved into something soft, something terrifyingly vulnerable.
I’m still not good at being loved, but for the first time in forever, I think it might be worth learning.

Editor: Hedgehog