Petals in a Concrete Garden

The city air often feels like dry dust on parched leaves, but today, everything smells of rain and possibility. I stand in this white expanse—a blank canvas waiting for the first sprout of spring to break through.
My heart beats with a rhythmic pulse, much like dew dripping from a fern’s tip onto mossy soil. It is steady, grounding me amidst the hum of steel and glass outside these walls. Every time I think of him, my chest warms as if caught in an early morning sunbeam that filters through thick canopy.
He doesn't need to say much; his presence is a gentle mist settling over my skin, easing the jagged edges of the day’s heat. We are two wild vines reaching for one another across a gray sidewalk, finding ways to intertwine despite the pavement trying to keep us apart.
I adjust my denim shorts and feel the cool breeze—a secret whisper from a garden we haven't built yet. In this moment, I am not just a girl in white; I am a seedling drinking deeply of his gaze, blooming under the softest light.

Editor: Green Meadow