The Weight of a Sugar Heart

The sun is a weight today, pressing against my skin until the boundary between my body and the air dissolves into humidity. In this corner of the city, time stretches like pulled taffy under the glare of afternoon light. My apron feels heavy with flour and the ghosts of previous days.
I made these hearts—small, sweet rebellions against the bitterness of a long, unrequited summer. They are still warm to the touch, smelling of vanilla and the secrets I keep behind my teeth. When you walked in, your shadow touched mine before you even spoke. It was a brief collision: my fingertips brushing yours as I handed over the tray. A spark of heat that felt like a cicada's cry—sharp, sudden, and haunting.
You didn't say anything, yet your eyes lingered on the strawberry glaze as if searching for a map to my interior world. You took one heart with you, leaving me alone in the steam of the bakery. I am left with the lingering taste of sugar on my lips and the salt of a wish that remains unspoken in the humid air.

Editor: Summer Cicada