Ashen bloom

The air tasted of burnt sugar and broken vows–sweetness clinging to the char. It began with a whisper, then the slow, inevitable searing of what we believed was solid ground.

Every word left unsaid became a cinder lodged in the throat. Every passing slight, a lick of fire on the skin; unseen, but deeply felt. A quiet simmer beneath smiles that had long since turned brittle.

Even the city seemed to hold its breath, exhaling only the dust of old fires. The asphalt didn't shimmer with heat alone, but with the ghosts of promises it could no longer carry. Cracks split the pavement like fault lines fracturing through concrete, through the brittle shell of old friendships, through the silent treaties we signed with ourselves and then forgot.

And still, a lone jasmine bloomed–defiant. Its petals were singed at the edges, its perfume stubborn, as if unaware of the ruin around it. The scent carried something else now too, the metallic tang of what had burned.

They say the rot has teeth. But sometimes the fire begins within, a slow, private combustion born of silence and self-denial.

And then, one day, the mirror cracked yet not from impact, but from the unbearable heat of honesty. The reflection showed a face carved by restraint, eyes smoldering with a thousand unvoiced grievances.

The silence finally broke, not with a scream, but with the crackle of everything that had been consumed.

Now, only the scent of smoke remains, clinging to the skin like a memory that refuses to cool. We call it dust. We learn to live with the ash. But the bloom, once white, now bears the unmistakable mark of its scorching.

Tousif Rishat explores themes of memory, silence and emotional turmoil through reflective prose. He occasionally writes under the name SENSEI and can be reached at: [email protected].