The Weight of Silk and Secrets

The cafe was nearly empty, the late afternoon light painting dust motes in the air. He always chose this corner booth—said it reminded him of a Parisian bistro, which was absurd, considering we lived in a town where excitement meant the annual pie contest.
He wasn’t here today, though. Just the ghost of his scent clinging to the worn leather of the seat across from me. I traced the floral pattern on my cup with a fingertip, remembering how he'd once said this dress made me look like something out of an old film noir—dangerous and beautiful.
The silk felt cool against my skin, a small rebellion against the warmth building within me. It had been six months since I’d seen him last, six months of carefully constructed normalcy. But some silences stretch on too long, become too heavy to bear.
I adjusted the lapels of the blazer, a nervous habit. He always used to do that for me when things felt out of place—a small gesture, but one that had held an entire universe of understanding. A text message blinked on my screen: 'Thinking of you.' No name, no need for one.
I closed my eyes, the weight of silk and secrets pressing down around me, and wondered if some stories are better left unfinished, lingering in the quiet spaces between what is said and what could be.

Editor: Lane Whisperer