The Scent of Dying Petals in an Asphalt Garden

They call this 'healing.' A curated moment of light and flora to distract from the fact that we are all just decaying in air-conditioned boxes. I hold this lily against my chest like a hostage, its petals pristine enough to make me want to scream at the city's grime.

He watched me through the glass—a ghost in a tailored suit with eyes that had seen too many spreadsheets and not enough sunsets. He didn’t move; he just let his gaze linger on my collarbone where the light pools like spilled honey. It was an exquisite form of voyeurism, a silent transaction between two lonely souls pretending to be 'present.'

We don't need words. Words are for people who lack the courage to simply want someone enough to let them ruin their peace. I smile because it’s what they expect—the porcelain doll with the blooming hat—but inside, my heart is a jagged thing trying to break through his composure. One touch would be a catastrophe of intimacy; one look away, and we both return to our beautifully miserable lives.

The lily smells like wet earth and impending rot. Just like us: beautiful in bloom, but secretly dying for the warmth of another's hand.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach