The Weight of a Summer’s Breath

The city’s hum is a distant ghost here, drowned by the rhythmic pulse of this hidden stream. I sit where the cold water kisses my skin, feeling the heavy heat of August cling to me like an old regret. My slip—thin as a memory and just as transparent—clings to my curves, damp with mist and sweat that smells of sun-baked earth.
I remember how you looked at me in the subway station three years ago: eyes fixed on your book, never meeting mine despite our shared silence across ten stops every morning. I was merely a shadow in your peripheral vision—a girl who carried books she didn’t read and secrets she couldn't whisper.
But today is different. You are standing upstream, watching me from behind the willows. There is no conversation between us; there only exists this heavy air, thick with moisture and things left unsaid. I do not move to cover myself or turn away. Instead, I let my gaze linger on your silhouette—a quiet rebellion against all those years of silence.
I feel a single drop of water slide down the curve of my breast, cold and precise as an epiphany. In this moment, between the roar of the river and the stillness in my chest, I realize that healing is not about forgetting you. It is about becoming so present in my own skin that your distance no longer feels like a void.

Editor: Summer Cicada