Satin Skin and Concrete Breath

The city is a machine designed to grind people into gray dust, and I’ve spent three years becoming the perfect gear. My life was an excel sheet of efficiency—cold coffee at dawn, fluorescent lights that bleached my soul white by noon.
But tonight, there's you. You told me we were 'just walking,' as if two bodies moving in parallel across a riverbank isn’t its own kind of ritual. I wore this champagne silk dress not to be beautiful—beauty is for people with time on their hands—but because it felt like skin that didn't have to defend itself.
When the wind bit into my shoulders, you threw your jacket over me without looking away from the skyline. It smelled of old tobacco and expensive loneliness. I’m wearing yours now; a heavy blue shield against an indifferent world.
I turned back just as you called my name—not with urgency, but like a question that had already found its answer. The river reflected the neon signs in jagged streaks of gold and violet, mirroring how we were both broken into shimmering pieces.
You think I’m playing hard to get? Please. My heart is an old house with too many locks on every door because it's tired of being looted by ghosts. But as our fingers brushed against the concrete railing—cold stone meeting warm pulse—I felt a tiny crack in my armor. Just one.
Go ahead, tell me I look lovely under these dying lights. Lie to me if you must. Because for once, I’m willing to be vulnerable enough to believe it.

Editor: Hedgehog