The Temperature of Silence

The city outside is a jagged mess of neon lights and deadlines, but here, the air tastes like dust motes dancing in gold. I hate how easily my skin remembers you.

I told myself this weekend would be for isolation—a fortress built of cedar planks and solitude. Yet, standing by the balcony as the sun bleeds into the horizon, every fiber of my body feels your ghost tracing its way across mine. It’s irritating, really. How can a memory have more weight than reality? My breath hitches when the light catches on my collarbone; it's an invitation I never meant to send.

You aren't here, but you are everywhere in this silence. The warmth of the sun is just a pale imitation of your touch, and that realization stings more than any sharp word I could throw at you. It’s pathetic how much power you hold over my pulse without even being present.

I should turn away. I should close my eyes and reclaim my composure. But for one suspended moment, I let the light wash over me—letting myself be soft enough to ache. Just once, before the cold returns, I’ll allow this fleeting warmth to call your name without saying it out loud.

Editor: Hedgehog