Petals on Cold Concrete

I hate the way this city pretends to be alive. All these neon lights and rushed footsteps are just noise designed to drown out how lonely we actually are.
Then there is him, with that infuriatingly patient smile and a habit of noticing things I try my hardest to hide—like the way my shoulders drop when he enters the room or the fact that I only wear this pale blue bikini because it reminds me of a sky before the smog takes over.
He told me today that I look like spring, which is an absurdly sentimental thing to say to someone who treats vulnerability like a contagious disease. My first instinct was to snap at him, to build another wall of sarcasm and cold stares.
But as he reached out to brush a stray cherry blossom petal from my hair, his fingers lingered just a second too long against my skin. It wasn't an invasion; it was an invitation. For the first time in years, I didn't want to pull away.
I let myself lean into that warmth, feeling the terrifying friction between my need for isolation and this sudden, aching desire to be known. Maybe being seen isn't a weakness if you find someone who doesn't mind the thorns.

Editor: Hedgehog