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His silence was a high-altitude kind of quiet, the kind that makes your ears pop and reminds you how thin the air is.
The way your pulse hammered against the skin of your throat through my viewfinder felt like a rhythmic demand for an edit.
I watched your thumb trace the spine of that paperback with a deliberate pressure that made me wonder how you’d handle a living thing.
You look like you're trying to calculate the ROI on looking at me, and honestly, the math isn't checking out.
The friction of your thumb against the inside of my wrist was more disruptive than the forty-thousand dollar canvas hanging to our left.
The cork came out with a sound like a polite cough, the kind you give when you're about to lie.
The condensation on the glass doesn’t just blur the view; it rewrites the physics of how I’m supposed to look at you.
The city at three AM has the same hollow resonance as a hollow-body guitar played unplugged—all vibration and no projection.