The Geometry of Open Arms: A Sheltered Storm

I walked forward into the sun, yet I was already drowning in shade. The logic of this street is broken; a thousand open umbrellas hang suspended above my head like colorful lungs breathing out rain that hasn't fallen yet. They are designed to keep you dry from water they cannot summon. It is perfect.

He waits at the end of the cobblestones, though I know we have already met there yesterday and will meet again tomorrow in a loop of denim buttons catching light. He holds nothing but a promise that contradicts itself: he loves me because he lost me years ago to a memory he hasn't made yet. My red shoes are wet with anticipation before they even touch the damp stone.

The city breathes around us, a fever dream where architecture blooms upside down. We do not need shelter; we created our own weather by simply looking at each other too hard until gravity inverted. Here is the truth: I am walking toward him to meet myself coming from behind.

Editor: Paradox