The Silence Between the Sparks

The runway is a long, straight road cutting through the night, but I feel like I'm walking down the familiar dirt lane behind my grandmother's house where we used to hide from the rain.

I am wrapped in this armor of light—black sequins that catch every beam above me—but inside, it feels soft and heavy with secrets. You are sitting there in the shadows, watching me not as a model, but as someone you know has been waiting for your attention all night long.

Every step I take is calculated, yet my heart beats like a train moving through the countryside—slowly, steadily, winding its way toward you. The air is cold enough to freeze lungs, but when our eyes meet across this distance, it feels like the warmth of a kitchen table where we used to talk until sunrise.

I don't walk for applause; I walk so that in the dark theater of your mind, you can see exactly where my heart beats against these ribs. It is a slow burn, the kind that starts in a quiet lane and spreads across an entire city until everyone knows we are passing each other on the street.

When this show ends, I hope to be the one walking with you into the rain, leaving the lights behind for something much quieter.

Editor: Lane Whisperer