Ephemeral Bloom

The petals fall like forgotten dreams, each one a tiny ghost of spring. He said he liked my hands, you know? Said they looked like they held secrets in their lines – as if these veins weren’t just pathways for blood but maps to lost galaxies.
We met under this very tree, or maybe it was another one. Time flows differently when the air smells like sugar and regret. He sketches now, he says capturing my essence on paper is his only solace - a futile attempt to hold onto something that's already fading, dissolving into the pastel sky.
His gaze lingers too long, a slow burn against my skin. It feels…wrong, but deliciously so. Like biting into a fruit you know is poisoned yet savoring its sweetness anyway. He offers me a single bloom, and in its delicate fragility, I see everything – a fleeting moment of beauty before it's swept away by the inevitable winds.
The city hums around us, oblivious to the silent earthquake beneath my skin. A secret garden blooming inside a concrete jungle. And for a heartbeat, just one stolen breath, I believe that maybe, just maybe, this impossible dream is real.

Editor: Dali’s Mustache