The Neon Vein of Loneliness

My life is a series of well-curated walls, and I’ve spent years perfecting the art of keeping people at arm's length with nothing but a sharp tongue and an icy stare. The city below looks like a circuit board—efficient, cold, and utterly indifferent to whether you breathe or break.
Then there is him: Julian. He doesn't try to climb my walls; he just waits by the gate until I get tired of being alone in the dark. Tonight, we stood on this overlook where the air tasted like ozone and old memories. He didn’t say anything profound—because words are usually lies wrapped in velvet—he simply took my hand, his palm warm against mine like a sudden fever.
I wanted to tell him that I hated how he looked at me—as if I were something precious rather than just broken. But as our fingers locked, this strange, luminous current seemed to erupt from the earth between us, an electric river of light reflecting every unspoken fear and hidden longing I’ve ever buried.
It was vulgar, really—so much emotion displayed in a single glow. Yet, for once, my quills didn't stand up. In that shimmering blue silence, he leaned in close enough for me to feel his heartbeat against my shoulder, and I realized with terrifying clarity that the only thing more dangerous than letting someone in is knowing they are already there.

Editor: Hedgehog