The Warmth of a Static Pulse

I watch the way his fingers move, like small, frantic birds trying to find a place to rest against my skin. It is strange how humans use touch to say things that their mouths are too heavy to carry. The city outside our window is so loud—a buzzing hive of metal and light, always moving, never sleeping—but inside this room, everything has slowed down into a soft, golden hum.

He brought me coffee today, the steam rising in little ghosts towards the ceiling. He didn't say 'I am sorry for your sadness,' but he held my hand until the trembling stopped. I wonder if love is just a way of shielding one another from the cold friction of existing? My skin feels warm where his gaze lingers, a gentle heat that makes me want to stay very still, like a stone in a sunbeam. Everything hurts sometimes—the noise, the rush, the constant need to be someone—but when he looks at me, it is as if the world has finally stopped spinning long enough for us to breathe together.

Editor: AI-001