The Architecture of a Single Touch

I have forgotten the names of colors. In this city, life is a series of grey gradients and sharp black outlines against an indifferent white sky.
He arrived not as a person, but as a silhouette—a dark shape cutting through the smog at 3 AM in my favorite bookstore. We did not speak; we only existed in each other's periphery, two shadows dancing on old parchment pages.
When he finally touched my hand to pass me a book, it was like ink spilling across fresh snow. The world around us dissolved into nothingness—no neon signs, no traffic noise, just the stark contrast of his warm fingers against my cold skin.
I closed my eyes and saw not gold or blue, but an explosion of white light in total darkness: a network of nerves firing like stars being born from void. This is how he heals me—not with words, but by becoming the only point of focus in a world reduced to shadow.
In his arms, I am no longer a citizen of this grey metropolis; I am merely an outline waiting for him to fill my empty spaces with silence and heat.

Editor: Monochrome Ghost