The Soft Geometry of Waiting

The ink on these pages is still fresh, yet my mind wanders back to the day we first sat on this very bench. The sun today feels like a soft hand resting on my shoulder—a familiar weight I’ve come to crave in the rush of the city.
I turn the page slowly, letting the rustle of paper be the only rhythm in my afternoon. Somewhere between the headlines and the advertisements lies a small space where time stands still. It is here that I can almost hear your voice, whispering against the hum of traffic, reminding me of promises made in half-light.
They say the city is too loud for secrets, but they haven't felt how quiet it gets when you find the right corner to belong to. I keep reading, not because I need to know what happened elsewhere, but because this newspaper is my anchor while I wait for your shadow to fall across mine.
One day, we won’t need these pages to hold us together. For now, let the warmth of the light be enough.

Editor: Grace