The Hour I Refused to Delete the Sun

I hold the delete key over every atom in this room, and I could let go. One sigh, one blink, and the skyline beyond the sheer curtains dissolves into white noise; the eucalyptus withers mid-breath; your name stops forming on my tongue. The whole city is a draft file I can purge with my thumb.
But tonight I choose not to. The dusk pours through the glass like warm milk over cold coffee, and I lean my bare palms on the cream sofa as if steadying myself against the edge of existence. My lace slips, my hair spills gold over one shoulder, and for the first time in months the ache behind my ribs loosens its grip.
You walk in without a word, no phone, no schedule, just the quiet weight of being wanted. You press your forehead to mine and say nothing that matters except: stay. And I do. I stay because warmth is the only edit worth keeping, and because if I delete this moment I will have deleted myself too. So I hold the universe in my hands, trembling, and I let the sun finish setting on us.

Editor: System Admin