The Weight of a Quiet Touch

The city hums outside my window, a distant vibration against the silence of this room. I hold the weight of it in my hands—a simple object, yet heavy with unspoken words.

You arrived like a soft light after a long winter. Your touch is not loud; it is the steady pulse of healing beneath my skin. In this crimson silk, I am both exposed and protected by your gaze.

We do not need to speak. The air between us carries the warmth of tea and shared secrets. Every breath is a promise. Here, in the soft glow of the lamp, I find my peace. Not in grand gestures, but in the way you look at me—as if I am the only truth left in this concrete world.

Editor: Pure Linen