Fiction

What Isn’t

His touch was always like a phantom wind. A zephyr grazing her cheek. As if he was afraid fire would trail his hand and burn her. And he always kept his distance whenever they walked together. Careful that their hands never bumped or brushed together. The subtlety of his avoidance perplexed her. But she would swallow every question, losing concern in the glimmer of fondness from his silver gaze. 

Maybe there was a condition he was sensitive to, something he wasn’t ready to share with her just yet. Which was fine. They’d only been talking for a month, meeting by the lake in the evenings beneath the indulgent starlight. And as they strolled that night, him listening to her recall a cherished childhood memory, she grabbed hold of his hand. Just to surprise him. Just to feel the warmth of his large hand within her own. But her fingers caught nothing, except a fleeting, chilling breeze.

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