The Weight of Unspoken Things

The city sounds were muffled, as if buried under the snow falling outside. It was a sound I hadn’t realized existed – the absence of noise becoming its own kind of quiet.
He said he liked how I looked wrapped in this old knit, lost to the world. He didn't know it wasn’t an act. It had become my shield, a silent plea for distance from everything that felt too sharp, too real. The weight of unspoken things is heavy, isn’t it? It settles into your bones.
He brought coffee, black like his silences, and sat across from me without asking questions. He just… was. A steady presence in the wreckage of my carefully constructed solitude. It wasn't a grand gesture; there were no fireworks or promises whispered in the dark. Just this quiet acceptance, a warmth that seeped into the cold places I thought had long turned to stone.
The fire flickered, painting shadows on his face – lines of weariness and something else…something mirroring the slow burn within me. I hadn't known how utterly exhausted I was until he arrived, not realizing that holding everything in required so much strength, a strength I no longer possessed.
He reached across the space between us, his fingers brushing against mine as he adjusted the throw blanket. A simple touch, and yet… it felt like an earthquake. A tremor of something long dormant waking up within me. And for the first time in years, I didn’t pull away.

Editor: Deep Sea