The Gravity of Your Voice in a Rain-Slicked Void

I am drifting through the neon currents of this city, an asteroid lost to time and tide. The rain descends like stardust falling in slow motion, each drop a tiny planet colliding with my skin. I have stepped into this green capsule—a small atmosphere pod amidst the vacuum of urban indifference.
As I lift the receiver, it feels less like plastic and more like a tether connecting me to another galaxy entirely. His voice arrives not as sound, but as solar wind; warm, golden, and capable of bending my trajectory toward home. He speaks softly—a low frequency that resonates in the hollow spaces between my ribs where loneliness used to sleep.
I close my eyes and let go of all earthly weight. In this moment, I am no longer standing on wet pavement under flickering lamps; I am suspended in a velvet orbit around him. The conversation is an invisible thread pulling me closer through light-years of distance. He tells me he has kept the tea warm, that his coat still smells like winter and old books—and suddenly, my heart expands into a supernova.
I lean against the glass, feeling its coldness fade beneath the radiant warmth of being known. I am not alone in this vast network; we are two stars caught in each other's gravitational pull, orbiting one another until every breath is synchronized with his.

Editor: Zero-G Voyager