A Fragile Fortress of White Lace

The city doesn't care if you're warm or cold; it just keeps grinding its gears until we all become part of the machinery. I stand by this railing, a curated piece of aesthetic meant to be looked at but never touched. They think the white lace is an invitation—a soft, floral plea for connection. Let them think that. It’s easier than explaining why I wear my vulnerability like armor.

The air here smells of salt and dying jasmine, a perfect contrast to the sterile steel of my apartment. I watch the horizon until my eyes ache, waiting for the moment when reality finally breaks through the haze. Then you appear, not with a grand gesture, but with that heavy silence that only understands me.

You don't say anything. You just stand there, your shadow mingling with mine on the white paint of the rail. For a heartbeat, our fingers brush—a tiny spark against my skin. I should pull away. My instinct is to curl into a ball of spikes and hide. But for one fleeting second, the coldness of the city recedes. In that touch, there’s a healing heat that makes me want to crumble. Don't look at me like you know what I'm thinking; it would be far too dangerous if you did.

Editor: Hedgehog