Touch

Absence is a strange thing—like the heavy silence before dawn, it fills the space between heartbeats, pressing against the soul.

I used to think the world was solid, like rocks shaped by the tides, clear edges, hard lines. But now, it's nothing but a blur—colors bleeding into one another like a watercolor left out in the rain.

I reach out, searching for something to hold, something with substance, but only the air greets my hands. I thought emptiness would be the worst kind of pain, until I realized that the absence of all feeling is even worse. It's the space between dusk and night, where nothing exists, and the longing itself cuts.