The Weight of Sunlight on Cold Water

The city is a jagged blade, cutting into my skin every day with its noise and gray monotony. I built walls high enough to keep the world out, sharp enough to ensure no one could get close enough to see the cracks. But today, I let the water take my weight.

The river feels like silk against my ankles—a silent, fluid sanctuary. My clothes are damp, clinging to me like a secret I’m not ready to tell anyone yet. People say you have to be strong to survive this life, but I think strength is just the ability to let yourself be soft for a moment without flinching.

Then there is him. He isn't here, at least not in body, but his letters are still tucked into my coat pocket, their ink bleeding slightly from the mist. 'You look like you’re drowning in light,' he wrote last night. It was a sharp observation—too perceptive for my liking—yet it made my chest ache with a warmth that felt dangerously like hope.

I step deeper into the current, watching the sunlight fracture across the surface. My heart is a fortress, yes, but even fortresses have windows. And right now, through one of them, I can see a version of myself that doesn't need to be guarded. For just a second, I am not an island; I am part of the river. It’s irritating how much I want to stay here forever, submerged in this quiet healing.

Editor: Hedgehog