Crimson Echoes in Neon Rain

The rain tasted of regret, a metallic tang clinging to my fingertips.
It always did after he left. Not with a shout or a slammed door, but with the quiet insistence of disappearing into the city’s pulse – a heartbeat too fast for me to keep pace.
He brought warmth, you see. Not in grand gestures, but in the way his hand fit perfectly over mine when we stood beneath these very neon signs, absorbing their artificial glow like thirsty shadows.
Now, only this red remains. A stubborn insistence of color against the grey concrete and the lingering dampness.
I trace it with my thumb on my lips, a phantom pressure, a ghost of his touch.
The bartender offered me whiskey; amber liquid reflecting the chaos outside. He didn’t ask why I was crying, not really. Just slid another glass toward me, a silent acknowledgement of the quiet devastation that blooms within these city walls.
There's a strange solace in this solitude, a delicate unraveling of what once was. It isn’t happiness, not exactly. More like acceptance—the slow recognition that some echoes, however painful, are all we truly have left to hold onto.
And tonight, the crimson glow feels less like a warning and more like a fragile invitation.

Editor: Antique Box