The Warmth I Kept for You

The lamp in the corner hums a low, golden lullaby, and I let my fingers rest just beneath my chin, as if holding back a whisper I have been saving all winter. For months the city was too loud, too cold, too many shoulders brushing mine without stopping. I learned to wear my armor like this black lace—beautiful, but thin enough to let the light through.

Then you returned, not with grand words, but with a quiet hand on my waist and a look that said: you are allowed to be soft again. In that glance, something thawed inside me, slow as rain on a windowsill. I am not performing for you tonight; I am simply letting myself be seen, whole and unguarded.

So here I stay, in the warm circle of this lamplight, breathing in the scent of your coat still lingering in the room. If love is a soft spring rain, then let it fall—gently, patiently—until every frozen corner of me remembers how to bloom.

Editor: Evelyn Lin