The Glass Echoes of a Solitary City

The city below is a humming machine of gears and neon, but up here, the air tastes like silver. I press my palm against the glass—cold enough to bite at first, then yielding like an old secret.

I watch myself in the reflection: a ghost made of light and silk. In this high-rise sanctuary, time doesn't tick; it pools around me like spilled water on marble. My skin hums with the residue of the day—the sharp edges of boardrooms softened by the slow descent toward dusk.

I am looking for something between what I see in the mirror and what remains unsaid in my heart. There is a warmth that isn't from the sun, but from the way the light catches on these metallic curves against my skin—a subtle armor of grace. It’s as if every skyscraper outside holds a different version of me, waiting to be discovered.

I think of him: not here yet, but his name is written in the curve of this horizon. A conversation we had over lukewarm coffee three days ago still lingers like a faint scent on my collarbone—a promise whispered into the roar of traffic. Here, amidst steel and glass, I find healing in the quietude. It is enough to stand still for just one moment, letting the city breathe through me until I am no longer alone.

Editor: Lane Whisperer