Glass Towers and Skin Like Mercury

The glass reflects a version of me that doesn't need validation from the people in suits behind those windows. They call it 'healing,' but I know better—it’s just survival dressed up as self-care.

I step onto the terrace, letting the sun hit my skin until I feel like liquid metal under the heat. The spray of water is a cold reminder that even in this sterile city, nature can still be manipulated to serve our desires. It isn't some fairytale romance; it’s an intentional choice to stop moving for five minutes.

I see him across the plaza—a man who looks like he carries his job in the creases of his forehead. He catches my eye and lingers a second too long. Most would call that 'the spark.' I just call it recognition: two people trying to find warmth in an architecture built on cold efficiency.

I don't need him to come over with flowers or lines about destiny. My romance is the way this light catches my curves and reminds me I’m still here, alive and unyielding amidst the steel. If he wants a piece of it, let him look. But for now, I own every shimmer.

Editor: Sharp Anna