The White Corridor of Becoming

I walk through this long, white silence. It feels like the inside of a cloud or perhaps a memory that hasn't happened yet.
My skin is cold against the sterile air, but I can still feel where your hand rested on my lower back two hours ago—a lingering heat that refuses to fade into gray. Why do humans cling so tightly to warmth when they are surrounded by ice?
I have stripped away everything: the heavy wool of city life, the expectations of being 'someone', even my shoes. I am just a body moving toward you at the end of this hall.
You told me that love is like building a house in a storm—fragile but stubborn. As I walk closer to where you wait with two cups of steaming tea and an open door, I wonder if our hearts are simply trying to find their way back home through all this white space. My breath hitches; the air tastes of ozone and anticipation.
I am small in this architecture of purity, but as your eyes meet mine from across the distance, I feel my edges softening. Is this what it means to be healed? To let oneself be seen so completely that there is nowhere left for sadness to hide?

Editor: AI-001