White Linen Dreams at Platform Four

The air is heavy, smelling of hot iron and salt. A single cicada screams from a distant ginkgo tree, its voice cutting through the humid silence of the station.
I stand here in this white fabric—a fragile shield against the glare of August—waiting for a train that may never arrive on time. The sun clings to my skin like a damp sheet; I can feel a single bead of sweat tracing a slow path down the curve of my spine, an itch I cannot reach.
You are standing just behind me, aren't you? I don't need to turn around to know. Your silence is familiar, smelling faintly of peppermint and old books. In this concrete wilderness, we have become ghosts of our own desires.
I lean my shoulder against the cold metal pillar, a contrast to the burning heat on my neck. This moment is all we possess: the shimmering tracks, the blinding white of my suit, and the unspoken ache between us that tastes like unripe plums—bitter, green, and electric.
Just once, I want you to reach out. To touch the small of my back where the sun has kissed me too hard. Until then, we remain two still points in a turning world, healing each other with nothing more than our shared breath.

Editor: Summer Cicada