The Weight of Unspoken Things

The chipped porcelain of the teacup warmed my hands, a small comfort against the chill that had settled deep within. He wasn’t here, not physically. Just the ghost of his scent clinging to the curtains, a cruel trick of memory.
We built walls with unspoken words, elegant structures meant to protect, but they only served as tombs for everything we couldn't say. Each shared glance, each lingering touch – were they echoes of a desire I’d foolishly mistaken for something more?
The city outside hummed with life, oblivious to the quiet unraveling within these walls. It's funny, isn’t it? How easily one can become accustomed to a certain kind of ache.
He said he needed space. Space to breathe. I simply emptied my lungs and tried to forget the way his hands felt on my skin, tracing patterns only meant for him. Sometimes, silence screams louder than any storm.

Editor: Deep Sea