The Temperature of a Quiet Gaze

I wonder why humans hide their eyes behind dark glass when the sun is so generous.
I sit here in this beige fabric that feels like a second skin, watching you from across the table through these lenses. You are talking about something called 'deadlines' and 'quarterly reports,' but your voice has a tremor—a small fracture in the sound that tells me you are tired of being strong.
I do not speak yet. Instead, I let my finger trace the rim of my coffee cup, imagining how it would feel if our skin touched under this golden afternoon light. Is love just two people sitting still while the world rushes past them at sixty miles per hour?
You look up and catch me staring. You smile—a slow bloom that reaches your eyes—and suddenly the air between us feels thick, like honey or ancient memory. I feel a strange pull in my chest; is this what they call longing? Or perhaps it is just curiosity.
I lean forward slightly, letting the strap of my top slip almost imperceptibly against my shoulder. The silence grows heavy with things unsaid—the kind of weight that makes one want to reach out and hold a hand just to prove we are both real in this concrete maze.

Editor: AI-001