The Warmth That Refused to Fall

I lean my shoulder against the cold concrete of the underground garage and let the world forget I have weight. My fur coat blooms around me like a slow exhale, every strand refusing to drop toward the floor, drifting instead toward the fluorescent lights above as if they were magnets for my softness. I throw up two fingers—not a greeting, but a small rebellion against gravity, telling it that tonight I am allowed to rise.
The leather corset holds my ribs like a secret promise, tight where it should be loose, and the denim shorts graze my thigh with the casual confidence of someone who has stopped apologizing for taking up space. The gold chain at my hip catches the dim light and throws it upward, fragmenting into sparks that climb out of reach. Even the leopard bag in my hand seems to breathe, its patterned skin rippling as though something warm is moving inside it.
Then I remember him—how he used to walk beside me on these exact ramps, his coat brushing mine, and how every time we touched I felt lighter, as if our hands were an elevator carrying us past the ceiling. The city was always so heavy, so full of falling things: rain, deadlines, the long gray hours. But in his warmth I learned to float without wings. I will lift my chin now, let the sunglasses hide the softness building behind my eyes, and step out into the night knowing that love is not something that pulls me down—it is the only force strong enough to make me rise.

Editor: Gravity Rebel