Lang Leav

Faded ink on a café napkin, your name, a whisper amidst the noise. Cups of coffee laced with untold dreams, a stolen glance, a love that is only visible.

We built palaces in sugar whirlpools. Our laughter was a melody for the passing girls. The afternoon sun grew slow and shy, making your eyes red.

But goodbyes were looming, shadows stretching long, your train ticket, a whispered, mournful song. The promises were imprinted on the folds of the handkerchief, imprinted forever—a story still untold.

Now that many years have passed, the handkerchief has become worn and frail—a fragile memory, a bittersweet breath. Do you keep the ghost of what could have been? Or has our love story also faded away, like mine?