The Weight of Unspoken Longings

Dust motes dance. He always leaves the blinds open, a sliver of defiance against the city’s gray insistence.
I trace the lace collar… grandmother's. A ghost touch. Funny how absence can feel like such meticulous tailoring.
He says I look good in black. Says it suits my quietness. Does he know quiet is often just a careful arrangement of things left unsaid?
The scent of rain on asphalt drifts from the open window, mingling with the lingering citrus of his cologne. A phantom limb sensation—the pressure of his hand.
He's late again. Always late. But I’ve learned to fill the spaces he leaves behind… with borrowed light and half-finished stories.
A single drop of water beads on the glass, mirroring the tremor in my hand as I reach for the phone. To call? No. Just...to remember his number.

Editor: Kaleidoscope