The Caffeine Ghost of Last Night

The city is still humming, but I’m vibrating on a different frequency. My head feels like it’s wrapped in cotton wool—the kind of heavy, sweet ache that only comes from a night spent chasing echoes in neon-lit bars. The air outside is sharp enough to sting, yet my fingers are curled around this paper cup like it’s the only solid thing left in a dissolving world.

I can still taste your laughter on the back of my tongue, a bitter-sweet residue that no amount of espresso can wash away. We were supposed to be just another blur in the crowd, two silhouettes dancing against the backdrop of holiday lights. But now, standing here under the weeping branches of some decorated tree, I feel like I’m holding onto the last embers of a fire that went out hours ago.

The warmth of the coffee is a lie I tell myself to keep from shivering. It mimics the way you looked at me across the table—steady, grounding, yet utterly fleeting. My coat feels heavy, like a protective shell against the reality of tomorrow morning. Tomorrow, we’ll be strangers again with clean hair and clear eyes. But for now, in this suspended moment between midnight and dawn, I’m letting the steam rise into my face, inhaling the ghost of us before the city wakes up and demands I be someone else.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn