The Warmth of Water and Whispers Long Forgotten

The city outside is a blur of neon and haste, but in here, time has decided to fold itself into the rhythmic beat of falling water.
I stand under this warm cascade, letting it wash away not just the day’s fatigue, but years of silent expectations that I had carried like stones in my pockets. The steam rises around me—a soft veil between who I am and who they want me to be.
As a single drop traces its path from my collarbone down past my heart, I find myself thinking of you. Not the you from last Tuesday or even last year, but the essence of your presence that lingers like an old song in terms of warmth and safety. Your voice is not here, yet it echoes through the tiles: 'Just be,' you had whispered once during a rainy midnight walk.
I close my eyes and lean into the stream, feeling every pore open to this liquid embrace. It is more than hygiene; it is an act of returning home to myself. My skin glows under the soft light—pale, wet, expectant—waiting for your hand to find its way across these shoulders when I finally step out.
I can almost hear you humming in another room, a sound that tells me I am loved without needing words. In this small square of porcelain and steam, we have built an eternity where the only clock is our breath syncopating with one another.

Editor: South Wind