Chromatic Aberration of Us

The train station air hangs thick with the scent of exhaust and unspoken things. I trace the seam of my coat, black leather cool against skin warmed from within.
He found me here, amidst the grey rush hour, a splash of color in an otherwise monochrome world. A strange place for a first encounter, but then again, he always did prefer the edges – frayed nerves, uncertain glances, liminal spaces where shadows dance.
His hands weren’t calloused from work, or rough with disregard; they were pianist's hands, smooth and strong. They lingered on my wrist as he returned my dropped glove, a simple gesture that felt like an electric current coursing through the concrete floor.
We don’t speak of ‘forever,’ not yet. Forever is a long time to ask someone to carry, especially in this city where even buildings are replaced. But for now, there's a fragile beauty in these stolen moments, a quiet understanding that blooms amidst steel and glass—a fleeting warmth against the brutalist chill.

Editor: Silky Brutalist