The Weight of a Barefoot Promise

I have spent three years learning how to be invisible in this city of glass and steel. I wore my silence like armor, crafting a life where no one touched me deeply enough to leave a mark.
Then you arrived—not with thunder, but with the soft insistence of morning light hitting an old book. You didn't ask why I dressed for dreams while living in reality; you simply held my hand and told me that the world was too loud for someone as quiet as I am.
Tonight, we stood on your rooftop overlooking a thousand blinking windows. The wind tugged at my blue dress like an old friend trying to pull me back home. When you stepped closer, the distance between us became a physical ache—a crushing void that had existed since before I knew your name.
I kicked off my shoes because the concrete felt too cold for someone who wanted to feel alive. As you wrapped your coat around my shoulders and leaned in, whispering that you’d wait however long it took for me to bloom, something inside me finally broke open. It wasn't a scream; it was an avalanche of every unspoken word I had ever swallowed.
I pressed my forehead against yours, eyes closed tight, feeling the heat radiating from your skin into mine. In that stillness, I realized that being seen by you is more terrifying than being alone—and infinitely more beautiful.

Editor: Deep Sea