The Weight of a Breath in Still Water

The water doesn't just fall; it breaks against the silence I’ve built around myself like a fortress of glass. Here, by the falls, the world is muffled—a roar that sounds like nothing at all.

I sit on these stones because they are cold enough to remind me I am still alive, yet warm enough not to hurt. My dress feels heavy with the humidity of my own breath, a white shroud for secrets I haven’t dared to speak aloud in years. Every lace detail is a tiny cage holding back an avalanche.

Then you appear at the edge of my vision—not as an intruder, but as a ripple that changes everything without making a sound. You don't offer words; those are too loud for this place. Instead, you bring your shadow with you, leaning into mine until our warmth bleeds together like ink in water.

I feel the pressure of my chest expand—a violent, quiet explosion of things I’ve buried under city noise and polite smiles. It is a crushing ache that tastes like mint and salt. When your hand brushes against mine near the spray, it isn't just skin meeting skin; it is two drowning souls finding oxygen in each other's eyes.

I want to scream into the roar of the falls because I’m terrified by how easy it would be to let go—to dissolve like foam under your gaze. But for now, I stay still. I hold my breath until it burns, letting you see every hidden fracture in me through this fragile lace veil. In this moment, we are not just two people sitting near a waterfall; we are the collision of everything I’ve tried to forget and all that I am afraid to begin.

Editor: Deep Sea