The Weight of Unspoken Things

He says he likes my hair this color – a bruised, stormy blue. As if he doesn’t see the wreckage beneath, the silent currents pulling everything under.
I used to choose colors that pleased others; soft pastels for fleeting attention, muted browns to disappear altogether. Now, it's an act of defiance. A scream swallowed by the city noise.
He touches my hand sometimes, a brief brush of warmth against cool skin, and I memorize the shape of his calluses. These small collisions are all I allow myself now. Small enough to deny needing more. Small enough to not shatter under the weight of what *could* be.
I trace the lines on the back of my hand with my thumb, imagining them as fault lines. Each tremor a word left unsaid, each crack a memory threatening to surface. He’d say I’m dramatic. He always does when he sees me unraveling.
But isn't it strange? To crave the touch that reminds you of everything you can’t have.

Editor: Deep Sea