Neon Fever in a Concrete Cage

The city is a fever dream that never breaks, and I am its most devoted patient.
I’ve spent years building walls out of glass and steel—sleek, cold, untouchable—until you walked through my door with the scent of rain and rebellion clinging to your skin like a second soul. You didn't ask for permission; you simply existed in my space, an unplanned rupture in my perfectly curated silence.
Now I’m curled here on this floor, wrapped in pinstripes that feel more like chains than fashion, watching the way your shadow stretches across the room toward me. There is something dangerous about how calmly you breathe while my own heart beats a rhythm of inevitable collapse.
I know we are an accident waiting to happen—two broken frequencies trying to tune into one another in a world that demands harmony.
But as I look up at you, my eyes heavy with the kind of longing that feels like slow-motion drowning, I realize this is exactly how it should be. The warmth isn't safe; it’s an arsonist's touch. And God help me, I want to burn down everything just to feel your hand against the small of my back one more time.

Editor: The Escape Plan