Concrete & Skin

The city bleeds grey, doesn’t it? But I remember colors.
He found me here, by the broken hoop where dreams shatter before they even form. Said he liked the way the light caught on my skin, a defiance against all this… decay. He probably meant to be provocative. Men do that, test boundaries like they haven't already been burned enough.
But his gaze lingered too long, not hungry or assessing, just…seeing. And I almost flinched. It’s dangerous letting someone really *see* you. The chipped paint on the concrete felt more real than anything in my life right now. Everything else was a performance, a carefully constructed armor.
He offered me a cigarette and didn't ask for my story, just lit his own with a steady hand. A small rebellion against expectations. Against everything.
I let him hold it to my lips when the nicotine burned too much. A stupid risk.
A delicious one.

Editor: The Escape Plan