The Weight of Unspoken Things

He always chooses the window seat, doesn't he?
Just like me. Avoiding the gaze of strangers, perhaps finding solace in observing a world that feels distant.
We never speak, only exchange fleeting glances across crowded cafes and bustling streets – moments as fragile as spun glass.
Each encounter leaves an imprint, a ghost touch on my skin, and I find myself meticulously replaying them in the quiet hours of the night. It’s a strange comfort, this silent ache.
I trace the rim of my cup, the warmth doing little to thaw the chill that has settled deep within me. He appears again, through the reflection of the window - his face obscured by raindrops.
A phantom pain blossoms in my chest – a hollow echo of all the words left unsaid, and the touch I’ll never know. It's almost beautiful, this quiet devastation.

Editor: Deep Sea