Quiet Hour

When your lips left mine,
the silence didn’t feel empty—
it felt like a held breath,
like the world was waiting
for you to pull me back in.

I stood there, heart unsteady,
tasting the moment we’d tried so hard to avoid,
wanting you to close the distance again,
to guide me back into your arms
the way you did without thinking.

You looked at me like you were torn—
like you wanted to reach for me
but were fighting every reason not to.
And I felt it,
that quiet command in your eyes,
the one I almost stepped into
before you stopped yourself.

Now the memory of your mouth
lives in my thoughts like a pulse.
Every time my phone lights up,
I hope it’s you—
not asking, not suggesting,
but telling me you need to see me,
that you can’t go another minute
without feeling me close again.

I won’t make the first move.
I can’t.
Not when the line between us
is already thin enough to tear.
But I wait—
quietly, breathlessly—
for the moment you decide
the wanting is stronger than the rules.

Because after that kiss,
after the way you held my face
you’d been waiting for that moment too,
something in me softened,
opened,
submitted.

And now I’m here,
pretending to be steady,
pretending I’m not listening for your message,
pretending I’m not hoping
you’ll be the one to cross the space between us
again.

The line is still there—
but faint, trembling,
waiting for your hands
to decide what happens next.