Neon Halos and Lukewarm Coffee

I’ve spent three years perfecting the art of looking like I don't need anyone. The makeup is a mask, the neon lights are my stage set, and this jacket? It’s armor against people who think 'dinner and a movie' counts as effort.
Then comes Leo. He doesn't bring flowers—too cliché, too likely to die in a week—he brings me two cups of coffee from that dive bar three blocks away where the barista knows your soul but forgets your name. We sit under this buzzing purple halo at 2 AM, and he tells me about his childhood dog without trying to sound profound or 'deep.'
He’s not reciting poetry; he's just being present while I stare into space wondering if my eyeliner is smudging.
There was a moment when our shoulders touched—just for three seconds—and it felt less like romance and more like coming home after an endless shift. He didn't try to kiss me or deliver some grand monologue about destiny; he just handed me his hand-warmer packet because my fingers were cold from the AC.
It’s pathetic, really. I thought I was immune to this kind of thing. But as we sat there in silence, surrounded by electric noise and digital ghosts, I realized that warmth isn't found in grand gestures or candlelit dinners—it’s found in someone noticing you're shivering before you even do.

Editor: Sharp Anna