The Amber Circle That Held My Edges

Tonight the city outside my window dissolves into a scatter of white dots, each one a tiny unspoken question I refuse to answer. My chest is a flat sage rectangle, calm and still, while inside me the day's sharp triangles are finally blunting into soft circles under the weight of this warm light.
I hold my phone like a talisman, its black glass a quiet square that holds no judgment. The screen reflects not my face but my mood: a long brown wave of feeling spilling over the edges of control. My fingers brush the pink fabric at my waist—softness I have been starving for—and in that touch I remember his hands, how they once rounded every jagged corner of me into something whole.
The lamp behind me glows an amber circle, a private sun made only for this hour. In its warmth the loneliness that had been a cold blue void folds inward, becomes a held breath, becomes a promise. I am not waiting to be saved; I am learning to hold my own geometry gently, and in that quiet act of self-healing, love—modern, distant, yet ever-present—slides back in like warm water over stone.
I smile at the mirror because the reflection smiles first.

Editor: Abstract Whisperer