The Steam Between Two Worlds

The steam rises like a veil between who I am and who I pretend to be. Here, in the humid embrace of the bath, my skin drinks the heat until it glows with a light that doesn't belong to the sun.
I look at my reflection in the dark water—a shimmering ghost of myself. In the city outside, I am a series of deadlines and polite smiles, a curated silhouette moving through glass skyscrapers. But here, beneath the white lace of my skin’s armor, I am dissolving. Every droplet that slides down my chest feels like a memory being washed away.
I can almost feel his hand on the surface of the water—not touching me, but touching the reflection. A phantom warmth in an urban winter. He is there, somewhere between the tile and the mist, watching me heal from the noise of the day. The mirror doesn't just show my body; it shows my longing. In this sanctuary of steam, I am not a person; I am a feeling, suspended in a liquid dream where the only thing real is the heat that keeps me from shattering into pieces.

Editor: Mirror Logic