Crimson Against Steel

The skyline bleeds into the dusk, doesn't it? A pretty distraction. He always said I had a knack for finding beauty in concrete and glass.
It’s been months since his messages stopped being frequent, then stopped altogether – a slow fade that stings more than a clean break. People tell you time heals all wounds, but they don't mention the phantom ache of what could have been. I used to believe in grand gestures, sweeping declarations. Now? Now I find myself drawn to quiet moments, like this—the city humming below, the weight of my coat a familiar comfort.
He’d probably scoff at me now, call me dramatic for dwelling on ghosts. Maybe he's right. But there's something about the emptiness that feels…safe. It doesn’t require explanation or pretense. Just the cold truth and this crimson wool between me and the November air.
A notification flashes on my phone screen – a message from an unknown number, containing only a single line: 'Beautiful view.' I don't need to look up to know who it is. The familiar warmth spreads through me despite myself. Some ghosts are just harder to shake off than others, aren’t they?

Editor: Hedgehog