The Weight of Sunlight on Water

The city hums beyond the garden walls, a distant vibration of steel and haste. Here, time slows to the pace of falling water.

I sit where the stones meet the stream, feeling the cool rush against my skin. It is a quiet healing—the way the sunlight catches on my hair like spun gold. My hand rises instinctively to shade my eyes, not from the sun, but to better see you standing there.

You do not speak. You only watch with that steady gaze that knows exactly where I keep my secrets. In this space between us, words are unnecessary. The air is thick with the scent of wet moss and new beginnings.

I lean forward slightly, a deliberate tilt of my shoulder towards your warmth. My heart beats in sync with the trickle of the brook—a soft, rhythmic pulse that says everything I am too afraid to whisper aloud. Here, under the canopy of green, we are not residents of a city; we are simply two souls breathing in the same light.

Editor: Pure Linen