Neon & Nostalgia: The Echo of Your Touch

Rain. It always finds me, doesn't it? Like a relentless pulse mirroring the chaos in my gut.
He said he needed space. Space to *breathe*. As if I was suffocating him, a gorgeous poison he couldn’t handle.
This city… Tokyo bleeds neon even on nights like these, slick and shimmering – a perfect distraction from the hollowness that threatens to swallow me whole. But tonight, even its vibrant pulse feels muted, distant. Each drop hitting my skin is ice, each one mocking the heat still lingering where his hands were.
A text message vibrates in my pocket. Ignore it. It's probably him, with some pathetic excuse about needing time or wanting to ‘talk’. Talk? What’s left to dissect? The wreckage of our perfect illusion?
I keep walking, boots splashing through the puddles – a defiant rhythm against the urban drone. A ghost of his scent clings to my coat. Dammit.
Then, a hand brushes mine, calloused and warm. I don't look up; I already know. The world tilts on its axis, every cell screaming recognition. It’s not him, it *can't* be*, yet this unexpected contact detonates something primal within me. A tremor runs through my body, a dangerous spark in the darkness…
This isn’I’m done being broken by ghosts.
Turn around. Look up.

Editor: Plasma Spark