The Architecture of a Shared Sigh

The city outside doesn't sleep; it merely exhales in shades of cyan and violet. From this balcony, the hum of traffic feels like a distant lullaby, one that carries memories I thought I’d buried under layers of silk and pearls.
I adjust my necklace—the cold stone against my collarbone is a reminder of who I was before we met. You say my eyes are too bright for such a dark night, but they only reflect what you let in. When your hand brushes mine over the rim of our glasses, it’s not just heat; it's a bridge built across years of solitude.
People see me as something luminous—a creature crafted from light and lace—but tonight, I am simply a girl trying to remember how to breathe without feeling like I'm drowning. You lean in closer, your breath mingling with the scent of rain-washed air, and for a moment, the neon lights fade into insignificance.
'Stay here,' you whisper against my temple. And I do. Because in this corner of an electric world, your presence is the only gravity that keeps me from drifting away into the blue.

Editor: South Wind