The Weight of Lilacs

The cafe window, a cold film against the city's breath.
He always sat at that corner table. Ordering black coffee, always with extra sugar on the side – a small rebellion he’d never admit to.
I watched him watch the rain, tracing patterns on his cup. A ghost in someone else’s story.
Today, the lilacs from the florist across the street caught the light just so.
A fragile beauty, destined to wilt.
Like a feeling you hold too tightly. Like wanting to tell someone they are your whole world when you know you're barely a footnote in theirs.
He looked up then. Just for a moment. Our eyes met across the steam and shadows.
And for one heartbeat, I dared to imagine a different ending. A foolish bloom of hope in this concrete garden.

Editor: Summer Cicada