Ephemeral Glow

The city lights bleed into the periphery, a muted watercolor against the November chill. He often says I have eyes that hold too much quiet.
Perhaps he’s right. They've absorbed years of unspoken things, observed too many fleeting connections in this concrete expanse.
He doesn’t ask about those silences; instead, he brings warmth—a shared coffee on a rain-streaked window, the pressure of his hand briefly finding mine across a crowded table. Small gestures, almost imperceptible to others.
Tonight, the scent of jasmine lingers on my skin, a ghost of his cologne. It’s a fragile comfort in this vast apartment. I trace the curve of my lip with a fingertip – a memory of his touch, tentative and fleeting.
He won't stay, not really. He is a visitor passing through, as transient as the city lights.
But for these few moments, the quiet feels different—less like solitude, more like anticipation.

Editor: Cold Brew