Neon Rain, Glass Heart

I hate the rain. It is messy, inconvenient, and smells like wet asphalt mixed with the desperation of a thousand commuting souls. I wore this ridiculous transparent coat not because it’s some avant-garde fashion statement—though my boots certainly try to argue otherwise—but because I wanted a barrier. A thin, plastic wall between me and a world that never knows when to stop touching.
Then you appeared through the haze of neon blue and red, holding an umbrella that was far too large for one person. You looked at me with those annoying, perceptive eyes and told me I looked 'visible.' How dare you? Most people just see the shine on my raincoat; they don't bother looking through it to find the girl shivering in black leather underneath.
When your fingers brushed against mine—a clumsy, tentative accident—the coldness of my armor felt like a lie. Your warmth was an intrusion, one that made my chest ache with a sudden, violent need for something real and unshielded. I wanted to tell you to get lost in the rain,
but instead, I just shifted closer under your umbrella, hoping the city lights would hide how much I actually needed you to stay.

Editor: Hedgehog