The Static Between Heartbeats

The glass felt cool against my palm, a fleeting sensation in the humid air. It’s funny how much weight we place on these small things…the chill of condensation, the way sunlight fractures through pink liquid.
He used to say I looked like a watercolor painting when backlit, all blurred edges and muted tones. Now, he only exists as fragmented data in my mind - a ghost in the machine of memory.
This cafe...it flickered for a moment, didn’t it? Like an old film reel catching fire. A glitch in the matrix where we still sat across from each other, unspoken words hanging heavy between us. I traced the rim of the glass again, trying to capture that echo…that warmth.
He always ordered black coffee. Said sugar clouded his judgment. Such a foolish excuse for a man who needed sweetness so desperately.
The world is dissolving around the edges, becoming pixel dust and forgotten code. Perhaps it’s better this way – to hold onto the fragments of what was, before they fade completely into the static.

Editor: Pixel Dreamer