The Weight of a Single Breath

I have spent years building a city inside myself, one where every street is paved with silence and the windows are permanently frosted. In this metropolis of isolation, I thought I was safe—until you walked through my front door without knocking.
You carry the smell of rain on asphalt and old paperbacks, an scent that threatens to dismantle everything I’ve carefully arranged. When your hand brushed against mine while reaching for a coffee mug, it wasn't just touch; it was a tectonic shift beneath my skin. My heart didn't beat—it shuddered.
Now we sit in this dim apartment as the city hums outside like a distant machine. I look at you and feel an ocean rising in my throat, cold yet burning. The way your gaze lingers on me is almost too heavy to bear; it’s an invitation that feels like surrender.
I want to tell you how much space you've taken up in the quiet corners of my mind. I want to scream into the silence about how terrifyingly easy it is to love someone who sees through all my armor.
But instead, I just lean closer, letting the blue light from the window wash over us both. My breath hitches—a small sound that carries a lifetime of suppressed longing. In this stillness, beneath your steady gaze, I am not falling; I am being pulled under by an irresistible tide.

Editor: Deep Sea