Concrete Bloom

He found me here, you know? Not lost, exactly. Just… hollowed out by the city’s glare.
I was a ghost in my own life then, drifting through these alleyways like smoke. Each brick wall a mirror showing back all the things I wasn't anymore. Wasn’t whole, wasn’t happy, wasn’t anything worth holding onto.

He didn't try to fix me with words – those always felt like bandages on a broken bone. He just… sat with it. Shared his quiet, strong coffee and the weight of his own damn story. A mechanic with grease under his fingernails and a kindness that scared me half to death.

We didn't talk about forever, not at first. Just small things. The way the light hit these buildings, how the city smelled after rain, the ache in your chest when you realize you’ve been holding your breath too long. He taught me to breathe again, slow and easy, each inhale a tiny rebellion against the emptiness.

Now? Now I trace the lines of his hands with mine, rough skin against soft, and wonder how something broken can feel so damn right. It ain't a fairytale ending, not yet. But it’s real. And in this concrete jungle, that’s all that matters.

Editor: Street-side Poet