Rain on Crimson

The rain arrived like a slow, insistent regret. It smeared the city lights into watercolor streaks across the glass of the bus window. He wasn't here, of course. Not this time.
I’d tracked him down from his last known address – a small cafe downtown smelling of burnt sugar and unspoken promises. The driver grumbled about late riders, the air thick with diesel and damp wool coats.
My gloves were slick, mirroring the droplets tracing paths down the pane. It wasn't about needing him, not really. More like an acknowledgment. A quiet acceptance that some connections are built on fleeting moments, ghosts in the headlights of a departing bus.
The red lipstick felt heavy against my lips – a deliberate flourish against the grey. A small rebellion, perhaps, or simply the residue of warmth he’d left behind.
He always favored this route. Said it reminded him of coming home. I wondered if he remembered the way the rain used to feel on his skin. The scent of wet pavement and anticipation.
The bus shuddered to a halt at my stop, leaving me alone with the reflection of the city—and the lingering taste of something almost-sweet, lost in the drizzle.

Editor: Terminal Chronicler