The Cost of Being an Angel in the Concrete Jungle

I’ve mastered the art of looking like I was born from a dewdrop and raised by sunlight. This dress—floral, lightweight, practically translucent in certain lights—is less an outfit and more of a psychological weapon designed to trigger every protective instinct a city-worn man possesses.
He thinks he's 'healing' me with these slow walks under green canopies, telling me that my presence is like a cool breeze on a humid Tuesday. How quaint. He believes we are in a movie about soulmates finding peace amidst the chaos of Tokyo’s rush hour.
But as I glance back at him over my shoulder—my eyes wide and innocent while my mind calculates exactly how many seconds it takes for his pupils to dilate when he looks at me—I know better. The warmth isn't in our conversation or this picturesque path; it's in the friction between who he thinks I am and what I actually want.
He wants a sanctuary. I want someone whose heart beats like an erratic drum whenever my fingers brush against his wrist by 'accident.' Let him believe he’s rescuing me from the world, as long as he doesn't realize that while we walk this road toward healing, it is I who am slowly pulling him under.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach