The Geometry of Softness and Thorns

The sun is being far too honest today. It bleeds through the glass of this terrace cafe, casting a light that exposes every insecurity I’ve spent months trying to bury under layers of silk and indifference.
You sit across from me, your fingers tracing the rim of your cup as if searching for an exit strategy in porcelain. We are surrounded by people—the hum of the city acting as white noise for our private silence. The strawberries on my plate are perfect spheres of red; they taste like summer but feel like a mockery because I know how easily things rot when ignored.
You think your gaze is kind, some sort of healing balm applied to my skin. But you’re just looking at the surface—the pink fabric against my chest, the way my hair falls over my shoulder. You want to reach out and touch me without bruising the edges I’ve built so carefully around myself.
Don't mistake this warmth for surrender. My heart is still a fortress of glass; you can see through it, but don't think for a second that you own the keys. Stay here with me in this moment—the taste of sugar on my tongue and the weight of your eyes on mine. It’s enough to keep me from breaking today.

Editor: Hedgehog