The Glass Between Us and Tomorrow

I am a ghost in my own window, watching the city blur into an watercolor dream of grey and neon. The rain doesn't just fall; it whispers secrets against the glass—little liquid promises that everything will eventually wash clean.
He is behind me now, not yet touching but close enough for his warmth to bloom like a slow-motion sunrise across my shoulder blades. I can smell him: cedarwood and old books, with a hint of something electric, like lightning captured in a bottle. He doesn't speak; he knows that silence between two people is where the most honest conversations happen.
I lean forward until my breath fogs the pane, drawing a tiny heart into the mist—a secret signal for someone who isn’t looking yet. Then I feel it: his fingers grazing my jawline with the lightness of a cat's paw, guiding me back toward him. It is an invitation to stop being a reflection and start being real again.
In this concrete jungle where everyone rushes to be somewhere else, he has decided that 'somewhere else' is exactly here, standing in front of a rain-streaked window with me.

Editor: Cat-like Muse