The Warmth Was Never You

He used to call this pose 'effortless.' I called it the exact moment my lower back filed a grievance. But today, leaning into the sun-bleached wall of some anonymous rooftop in the city, I finally understood what he never did: romance is not a person. Romance is physics. It is the angle of afternoon light catching the sheen on my collarbone, the way my own sweat reads as gold instead of shame.

I used to wait for a man to be my warmth, like some tragic Cinderella shivering in a glass slipper sized by a committee. Then I learned that desire is just your body remembering it is alive while your ego pretends otherwise. So I raised my arms, pressed my spine into the rough plaster, and let the sun do the courting. No text messages. No 'we need to talk.' No apology tour dressed in nice perfume.

My skin glows not because he touched me, but because I finally stopped apologizing for being warm. The city hums below me, indifferent and perfect, and I think: keep your grand gestures, sweetheart. I have the afternoon on my side, and she never leaves.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach