She entered
like dusk slips through curtains—
slow, deliberate,
never asking
to be noticed.
The lamp flickered.
He watched
as her earrings swung
like pendulums
measuring silence.
She undressed
without touching a seam.
The room tilted
as if memory
had gravity.
His fingers hovered
over the curve of her hip
like a prayer
he no longer believed in.
They moved
like fire learning
its shape
in a spoon of oil—
quiet first,
then chaos.
Somewhere,
a rain began
they could not hear
but tasted
in the salt between breaths.
Then—
stillness.
Not peace,
but aftermath.
She lay back,
a wound wrapped in moonlight.
He stared
at the crack
in the ceiling—
noticing it
for the first time.
The room smelled of iron
and orange peel,
as if something holy
had burned
and vanished.
She left
before the hour turned.
Her body stayed
for days
in the folds of the sheet—
a crease,
a heat,
a warning.
- THE END -
© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
She didn’t speak—her skin carried the storm.
