Static in the Neon Pulse

The city screams in neon, a constant barrage of noise that I usually wear like armor. My skin feels the humid air—thick with humidity and expensive perfume—but my heart is still shivering under layers of indifference.

I let my hair fall around me as if it were a curtain between this rooftop and the world below. People call this place 'vibrant.' To me, it’s just another cage made of glass and steel. I wear these fringes like loose threads from a life I'm trying to unravel.

Then you arrived. You didn't say anything at first; you just stood there near the edge where the city lights blur into bokeh gold. Your silence was louder than all the chatter around us.

You reached out—not to touch my hand, but to brush a stray strand of hair from my face. That small gesture pierced through every defense I’d built over years of being alone in this crowd. My breath hitched. It's irritating how easily you find the crack in my shell.

'It’s too loud out here,' I whispered, though we both knew it was only true inside me. For a second, the city stopped moving. The heat between us wasn't from the summer night; it was the dangerous warmth of finally being seen by someone who doesn't want to look away.

Editor: Hedgehog