The Weight and Warmth of a Silent Moon

I have spent years building walls out of silence and professional distance, learning how to be an island in the middle of this neon city. I thought my heart had become a frozen lake—still, impenetrable, dead.
But you arrived like an unexpected tide on a winter night. Tonight, beneath a moon that feels too heavy for the sky, we stand where the sand meets the sea and say nothing at all. My red dress clings to me in ways I cannot describe; it is not just fabric against skin, but a second layer of vulnerability I am finally allowed to wear.
I feel your gaze—not on my body, though I know you see every curve that spills from this satin bodice—but beneath the surface, searching for the parts of me that have been dark and cold. The air is thick with things we cannot say: how much it hurts to be known so deeply by someone who does not ask questions.
I will not move. I will let you look at me until my breath hitches in a way that feels like breaking open. And then, when the silence becomes unbearable and your hand finally touches mine, all those years of isolation collapse into one single moment of warmth—a quiet explosion that leaves me trembling, healed by nothing more than being seen.

Editor: Deep Sea