The Weight of Sunlight

He smelled of rain and ambition. A dangerous combination, I’d initially thought.
Now, the scent anchors me.
It began with a single cup of coffee – lukewarm, precisely brewed at 6:17 am. An observation, he’d said, noting my preference for routine. A small act of control, perhaps, or simply… recognition.
I’d been collecting fragments of myself in sterile containers for years; shards of past relationships, carefully labeled and filed away like specimens in a forgotten laboratory.
He doesn't dissect me. He simply sits with the cracks, letting the sunlight bleed through them.
The lace of this dress feels fragile against my skin, almost apologetic. It’s a relic of a life I was actively dismantling, seeking to erase the echoes of others’ desires.
But when he reaches for my hand – hesitant at first, then with a certainty that chills me in the most exquisite way – I don't pull away.
There’s a warmth spreading beneath my skin, not born of heat, but of something far more potent: the slow, deliberate dismantling of walls I didn’t realize I’d built so high.
He says he likes watching me breathe. And in that moment, bathed in the golden light, I understand – some wounds require a touch of darkness to truly heal.

Editor: Black Swan