He said it like a wound. Like the word itself had teeth. “Fire.” It stuck in my throat, in my clothes, in the spaces between us that felt too small for oxygen. His stories crawled under my skin—bikes, marshmallows, gasoline—until my pulse started answering memories I didn’t remember mak… Continues…
Related Posts
Your veins don’t change for nothing. One day they’re barely there; the next, they’re bright ropes under your skin, pulsing after a shower, after a sprint, after…
She Walked Off On Purpose
Some stars don’t fade. They choose to disappear. She walked away at the height of her power, when every door was open and every camera was waiting….
Abandoning The Wrong Version
You felt holy, then emptied. The kind of hollow that makes silence roar and every unread message feel like a sentence passed. You gave pieces of yourself…
The Vacation Smell You Missed
You think your home is safe. You lock the door, pull it shut, and walk away, certain that nothing inside will move without you. But something does….
Hidden Power Of Bath Towels
They wait for you in silence. Every morning, every night, they’re the first thing that touches your bare, vulnerable skin. One feels like a hotel dream, another…
Whispers Between Three and Five
Waking at 3:17 a.m. feels like being dragged to the surface of a dark ocean. The room is still, but something inside you is not. Your heart…