The Transparency of a Summer Afternoon

I stepped out into the midday glare, draped in nothing more than a thin layer of white linen that felt like a second skin—or perhaps an invitation. The city is always rushing toward something it can never quite reach, but here, amidst the scent of overripe peaches and damp pavement, time seemed to stall.
I remember how you used to say I looked most honest when I was barely covered, as if modesty were just another wall we built between us in this crowded metropolis. Today, I walked through the market with a bag of fruit that felt heavier than it should have, my dress clinging to me with every humid breeze, teasing the edges of visibility.
I wasn't looking for you, not exactly. But as I turned the corner toward the station where we last said goodbye—a farewell that sounded more like a pause than an end—the light hit the street just right. For a moment, I felt your ghost brushing against my shoulder, sensing the warmth of a reunion that hasn't happened yet but is inevitable.
I stopped and looked back, letting the breeze lift the hem of my gown. In this city of millions, we are all just missed connections waiting for the last bus home. But today, under the white sun, I felt you watching me from some distant street corner, healing a wound I had forgotten was still open.

Editor: Terminal Chronicler