Crimson Bloom in Concrete Rain

The rain tasted like exhaust and regret.
I’d deliberately chosen the brightest red – a stolen poppy against the grey of the city. It clung to my lips, slick with humidity, mirroring the way his gaze used to linger.
Not truly seeing, perhaps, but assessing. A collector cataloging a rare specimen.
He didn't notice the heat rising from my skin, the subtle tremor in my hand as I adjusted my scarf. The scent of jasmine and something sharp – ozone, maybe – filled the air around us.
A busker played a mournful saxophone melody across the street. It wasn’t beautiful, not really. Just… persistent. Like the memory of his smile.
I traced the outline of my reflection in a puddle, the red bleeding slightly into the water. A fleeting, imperfect imitation of something lost.
The rain began to ease, leaving behind a film of silver on the pavement and a quiet dampness clinging to my hair. It wasn’t warmth, not exactly. More like acceptance – a slow surrender to the bittersweet bloom of this afternoon.
He hadn't spoken. He wouldn’t.
And yet, for a moment, I felt… almost whole.

Editor: Summer Cicada