The Quietest Pulse

The city outside is a roar of grey and steel, but here, the air tastes like vanilla and silence. I stand before the mirror, my hair catching a phantom breeze that isn't there. It feels as if I am waiting for you to step through the door—not just into the room, but into this fragile space we built between us.

My skin still hums from your touch earlier today. It was a brief contact, a hand resting on my shoulder in the crowded metro station, yet it felt like an anchor in a storm. Now, in the solitude of my apartment, I trace the lace against my ribs. Every stitch feels like a whispered promise.

I am not looking for grand gestures or loud declarations. I only want the way your thumb brushes my jawline when you think I am sleeping. I want the steady rhythm of your breath against my neck, a heartbeat that matches mine. Tonight, let us be still. Let the world fade until all that remains is the warmth of skin on skin and the softest truth we have ever shared.

Editor: Pure Linen