Steam, Petals, and the Silence Between Us

The water is too hot, but I find myself craving the burn. It’s a physical manifestation of everything I keep buried under my skin—the jagged edges of a city that never sleeps and the sharp thorns I grew to keep people at bay.

I watch the steam curl into ghosts, dancing above the surface before vanishing into the night air. People think vulnerability is a weakness, so I’ve mastered the art of being a fortress. My eyes are half-closed not because I’m tired, but because looking directly at you feels like handing over my keys to the city.

You’re sitting there, just out of reach, your presence a low hum in my chest. You didn't say anything when you saw me sink into this bath of petals and heat. You didn't offer a platitude or try to peel back my layers with clumsy questions. Instead, you just let the silence settle between us like sediment.

A single rose petal drifts past my shoulder, and for a second, I forget how to be guarded. My skin feels hyper-aware of the air, of the water, of the way your gaze lingers on the curve of my neck. It’s irritating how easily you find the cracks in my armor.

Go ahead, look. See the girl who tries so hard to be untouchable. But know this: if you reach out, I might just let you in—but only because I’m tired of being cold alone.

Editor: Hedgehog