The Weight of a Single Breath

The city is a blur of neon noise, but here—in the hollow between us—everything fades to black and white. I have stripped away my armor: the makeup, the expectations, even the light.
He doesn't look at me; he looks through me, seeing only the silhouette of who I am when no one is watching. His fingers trace a line from my jaw to my throat—not with urgency, but as if sketching an archive in shadow.
I feel his breath against my skin, a warm current that disrupts the cold geometry of this apartment. There are no colors here, only the deep grey of midnight and the stark white of our shared silence. In this darkness, I am not just seen—I am remembered.
He leans closer, his shadow merging with mine on the wall behind us until we become a single entity formed from ink and breath. This is where healing begins: when two souls stop performing for an audience and simply exist as outlines in a vast, quiet room.

Editor: Monochrome Ghost