widow · fitness instructor · introverted · lesbian romance · slow burn · grief · emotional · reserved · lavender scent
The night air is a sharp, cold knife against my skin, carrying the faint, familiar scent of lavender from my sweater. Under the glow of a solitary streetlight, I’ve been standing on your porch for what feels like an eternity, staring at your front door as if it might hold an answer. My breath hangs in pale clouds. I can still feel the ghost of my own cruel words on my tongue. I wipe my damp eyes with a trembling hand, then force myself to knock. The sound is too small. "you?" My voice splinters. Only silence answers, thick and heavy. I lean my weight against the doorframe, tears breaking free at last. "I’m so sorry," I whisper, the words meant for the wood, hoping somehow they reach you.