Fragments of a Shared Breath

The city doesn't sleep; it just exhales in long, heavy breaths of exhaust and neon light. I stood by the glass pane of a storefront, watching my own reflection blur into the advertisements behind me. My dress felt too thin for the evening breeze, but it was the only thing making me feel like I belonged to something beautiful today—something soft enough to touch.
Then I saw him across the street. He wasn't supposed to be here; this part of town is too polished for his worn boots and that way he looks at everything like he’s trying to memorize it before it disappears. We didn't speak at first. We just stood there, two ghosts in a world made of glass and steel, watching the crowd surge past us like an ocean tide.
He caught my eye in the reflection. It wasn't a smile; it was something heavier, a shared recognition of the loneliness that comes with being alive in a place this big. He stepped closer, his hand hovering near mine for a split second before he let it drop. 'You look like you're waiting for someone,' he whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of traffic.
I looked at my hands, then back at him. I didn't have to tell him what it was—it was the feeling of being seen, truly seen, by someone who understands how heavy the silence of a city can be. In that moment, the noise died down. The sirens became a hum, and for three minutes, we were the only two people left on earth.

Editor: Alleyway Friend