The Weight of White Silk

The city always tastes like iron and burnt coffee—a constant, grinding hum in the back of my skull. I fled it for this white-washed silence, wearing a dress that feels too delicate for the weight I carry inside. The wind here doesn't push; it whispers secrets about people who stayed.

I stood on the ledge, watching the Aegean swallow the sun, thinking about how easy it is to be beautiful in a postcard and how hard it is to stay whole in a subway car at 6 AM. My skin feels warm from the dying light, yet there’s a hollow ache where my purpose used to be.

Then I saw him—or rather, his ghost—in the way the shadows stretched across the stone. He was the one who taught me that love isn't just a feeling; it's a choice made in the middle of a crowded street when you’re tired and hungry. Now, I’m standing here, thousands of miles from our messy apartment, wondering if I can ever go back without shattering into pieces. But for this one moment, as the blue dome catches the last glow, I am not a worker, or a lover, or a survivor. I am just a woman in white, breathing in the salt air and letting myself be held by nothing but the horizon.

Editor: Alleyway Friend