The Weightless Warmth of Coming Home

I lift the linen above my head and feel it unfurl like a ring of pale dust around a quiet planet. For one suspended breath, gravity forgets me; my shoulders release their slow orbit, my spine uncurls from the long compression of city days. The beige tiles behind me glow like sun-warmed stone on some distant world, and the white pillows cradle me as if I were drifting through a sea of clouds that had learned to be soft.
Down there, in the grid of streets and humming servers where everyone is always rushing toward a horizon they never reach, I have forgotten how to simply exist. But he found me again. He crosses the metropolis with a single purpose: to bring warmth back into my cold orbit. His hands on my waist, his voice low as a radio signal from far away, remind me that love is not spectacle. It is the quiet gravity that holds two bodies together when everything else wants to scatter into vacuum.
I smile because the towel catches the light and turns my hair into a halo of floating dust, and I am no longer just a tired traveler. I am home. In this small room, in this white embrace, the universe narrows to one warm point: his breath against my neck, the steam of tea, the slow healing pulse of being chosen. I float, weightless and whole, anchored only by love.

Editor: Zero-G Voyager