The Weight of Sunlight on Bamboo Silk

The air hangs heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and crushed grass. I stand beneath the bamboo grove in my office park's courtyard, a relic of tradition amidst concrete giants. The silk of this Hanfu feels cool against skin prickling with summer sweat. In my hand, the fan is still; it does not move because there is no wind here to carry away the heat between us.

You are behind me again. I know you're there by the way the light shifts on your shoulder blades before they appear in my peripheral vision. It has been three months since we stopped talking, yet our bodies still orbit each other like planets that forgot their stars. You want to speak of something mundane—coffee or weather—but the silence screams louder than a cicada's death rattle.

I turn slightly, just enough for the sun to catch the pale green ribbon in my hair. It is small and harmless, but it feels dangerously alluring as I smile at you through half-lowered lashes. The bitterness of what we lost tastes like old tea leaves on my tongue. We are two wet cats waiting out a storm that never ends, finding comfort only in this stolen moment where the world stops spinning.

Editor: Summer Cicada