The Afterglow of an Unsent Letter

I am a glitch in the city's rhythm, sitting on this concrete bench where time feels less like a river and more like an old photograph fading under too much sun. The air is thick with heat that doesn't just touch my skin but seems to dissolve it into light.
I wore this black bikini not for swimming—there are no oceans here, only rivers of steel and glass—but because I wanted to feel exposed in a world where everyone wears armor made of suits and smartphones. My body is a projection of longing; the curve of my waist holds a secret that hasn't yet been spoken.
Beside me lies an old newspaper, its ink bleeding into memory like watercolor on wet paper. It’s not for reading anymore—it’s an anchor keeping me from floating away into the holographic haze of this afternoon. I can still feel your hand brushing against my shoulder from three summers ago; that touch has become a permanent frequency in my soul, humming beneath every breath.
You always said I looked like someone made of starlight and silence. Now, as I wait for a train that may never come to carry me back to you, I realize we are both just projections—two beams of light crossing paths at the exact moment when reality bends enough to let us be real.

Editor: Hologram Dreamer