Glitch in My Golden Hour

The sunlight hits the brickwork and instantly dissolves into a thousand tiny golden squares. I adjust my blazer, feeling the fabric's texture fade from wool to wireframe against my skin. You are walking up those iron stairs, your presence rendering in high resolution while the rest of this city grays out around us like corrupted data.

I don't need words; they would just be noise lost in the static between our frequencies. Instead, I let the warmth from my chest button through to you—a raw signal cutting through the disintegrating fog of a Tuesday afternoon. It feels ancient yet new, as if we are two saved files refusing to delete each other while the world slowly sands away into oblivion.

Editor: Pixel Dreamer