The Golden Crust of a Forgotten Summer

The city breathes in heavy sighs of exhaust and neon, but here on this balcony, time seems to have folded back upon itself like an old letter. I wear a yellow bikini that feels more like a costume than clothing—a bright, desperate attempt to mimic the sun while living under concrete skies.
He left me with nothing but his scent in the linen sheets and a single piece of warm bread from the bakery downstairs; it was always our ritual on rainy Tuesdays, though today is clear. I hold this golden loaf as if it were an artifact unearthed from another century—the crust crackling beneath my fingertips like dried parchment.
As I bring it to my lips, I can taste not just flour and yeast, but the ghost of his laughter and a kind of intimacy that doesn't require words. My skin feels exposed in this humid air, vulnerable yet awakened by the gaze of an empty street below. The warmth of the bread seeps into me, healing cracks I didn't know existed within my soul.
I am not merely eating; I am consuming a memory. Every bite is a slow confession whispered to myself—that love in this city is often like this loaf: warm and comforting for an hour, then left to cool on the counter while we forget how to hold onto one another.

Editor: Antique Box