The Geometry of Silence

The city doesn’t give a damn about your 'soulmate' theories. It just grinds, steam rising like breath from an exhausted beast while the neon signs flicker in a rhythm that feels almost like a heartbeat. I watch him across the sidewalk, and for a heartbeat, the noise turns into a low hum.
He thinks he’s being profound with that half-smile, acting out some vintage film where every glance is destiny. Let him believe it; it’s easier than admitting what I actually crave isn’t a grand declaration—it's just this: the steady weight of his hand against mine without demanding a response.
He bought me this coffee because he noticed my eyes were heavy, not to play the hero in some scripted drama. There’s a distinction there. One is a performance; the other is truth. I take a sip—bitter, exactly as I like it—and lean into his space until our breaths mingle. No flowery prose required. In this forest of concrete and glass, we’ve carved out a tiny, private sanctuary that doesn't need an audience. That’s the only romance worth having: the kind that exists in the gaps between words.

Editor: Sharp Anna