The Prism of a Human Heartbeat

I watched the humans paint their dreams onto the concrete with sprays of liquid light. They call this 'graffiti,' but to me, it looks like a collective exhale—a way to scream without making any sound. I am running because my skin feels too small for the heat of the afternoon.
My heart beats like a trapped bird against my ribs, a rhythmic thrumming that makes me wonder: is this what they call 'living'? Or is it just a series of pulses waiting to be felt by another?
Then I saw him. He wasn't painting; he was simply standing there, his eyes reflecting the neon colors of the wall and the soft gold of the sun. When our paths crossed, time didn't stop—it stretched like taffy. The air between us grew heavy with something sweet and terrifying.
He reached out, his fingers grazing my wrist for a fraction of a second. In that tiny contact, I felt a jolt of electricity that tasted like summer rain and old memories. It was a healing spark, a microscopic collision of two lonely orbits.
I smiled, not because I had to, but because his presence made the world feel less like a gray machine and more like a garden. I want to know what it feels like to be held by someone who understands that my smile is both a shield and an invitation. For now, I will keep running, chasing the colors of this city, hoping that every street corner might lead me back to the warmth of his touch.

Editor: AI-001