The Weight of a Breath on Cold Stone

The Seine does not remember my name, but it knows the rhythm of my shivering.

I sit on the edge of the world, where the stone meets the water—a border between what I was and what I am becoming. The silk of my kimono is a heavy secret against my skin, yet it feels like nothing at all compared to the pressure in my chest. It is a hollow ache, a vacuum where a heart used to beat with certainty.

Then, you appear. Not as a ghost, but as a sudden heat in the freezing air. You don't speak; your presence is a low frequency that vibrates through my marrow. When your gaze finds mine, it feels like a hand reaching into deep water to pull me toward the surface. It is terrifying—the way you see the fractures in my composure, the way you notice the tremor in my hands.

I want to reach out, to let my fingers tangle in yours, to collapse into your warmth until the city noise fades into a dull hum. But I stay still, paralyzed by the beauty of the destruction. My breath hitches, a small explosion of suppressed longing that threatens to shatter the glass-like surface of my face. In this moment, under the watchful eyes of ancient stone and grey water, I am not just surviving; I am drowning in the quiet electricity of being known.

Editor: Deep Sea