Neon & The Ghosts We Invite In

Rain. Tokyo spits it out like unwanted memories, and honestly, the city can have them.
I used to chase warmth in people – a pathetic reflex I’ve spent years unlearning. Men who smelled of old money and empty promises… they were always so neatly packaged, weren't they? Convenient distractions. Now, I find it in the way the neon reflects on wet pavement, distorted but beautiful.
He texts again. 'Still awake.' As if a man like him even registers on my radar anymore. A ghost of a touch lingers on my skin, though—a cruel trick of memory. I don’t reply. Why bother? He's a phantom limb, aching only when I allow myself to feel the absence.
Let them think I'm cold, encased in this plastic and cashmere armor. Let them mistake distance for disinterest. It suits me. A woman who knows her worth doesn't chase shadows; she steps into the light, alone if necessary, and builds an empire there.

Editor: Ginny on the Rocks