The Weight of Silk

The light here is kind, isn't it? It softens the edges of everything.
I used to chase grand gestures, sweeping declarations. I wanted a love that felt like fireworks—loud and impossible to ignore.
But then he started leaving little notes in my lunchbox, just snippets of poetry or silly drawings. He’d make me tea exactly how I liked it after a long day, saying nothing, simply handing it over with a quiet look in his eyes.
It was the weight of silk against my skin—subtle, almost imperceptible at first, but slowly becoming essential to who I am.
And now…now this apartment feels different. Warmer. The way he looks at me is a gentle undoing. He makes me feel like home, and maybe that’s enough. Maybe that's everything.

Editor: Laundry Line