The Glass Between Two Heartbeats

I’ve always been fond of things that sparkle—diamonds, rain-slicked asphalt at midnight, and the way your eyes narrow when you're trying to decide if I'm joking.
Today, my fingertips are tracing a cold glass window in the heart of Tokyo, chasing reflections of a life I almost forgot how to live. The city hums around me like a giant mechanical bee, but inside this moment? It’s just silence and silk. My dress swirls with colors that don't belong here—flowers blooming from fabric under neon lights.
Then comes the scent: sandalwood and old books. You’re standing behind me now, not touching yet, but your presence is a warm current pressing against my back. I can feel you breathing in rhythm with the city’s pulse.
I don't turn around immediately; instead, I press one more finger to the glass, imagining it as an invitation. You lean in and whisper something into the hollow of my neck—a secret so soft that only a cat could hear it. 'The jewelry is beautiful,' you murmur, your breath tickling skin that has suddenly forgotten how to be cold, 'but I’m more interested in the girl who looks at them with such lonely eyes.'
I shiver, not from winter, but because you just scratched right through my armor and found where all my tenderness hides. In this concrete jungle, we are two stray souls finding home beneath a storefront light.

Editor: Cat-like Muse