The Static Between Us

I stand here in this neon-lit purgatory of a convention hall, clutching an acrylic standee like it's some kind of holy relic. Pathetic, isn't it? A grown woman pretending that two dimensions are enough to fill the void where my social life used to be.
Then there’s him—the guy who hasn't stopped staring for ten minutes with a look so earnest it almost makes me want to vomit. He thinks he can read me through these lime-yellow headphones, as if they aren't just armor I wear to keep the world at arm's length.
When he finally speaks, his voice is like warm honey poured over jagged ice. 'I’ve been looking for that limited edition art piece,' he lies—and we both know it because the standee in my hand isn't even rare. He just wanted an excuse to breach my perimeter.
I give him a sharp glance and tell him his taste is mediocre at best, but as I shift my weight on one leg, our fingers brush against each other while he reaches for the card. It’s a tiny spark in a city of cold concrete and digital noise.
For a second, the headphones slip just enough to let the sound of his heartbeat echo mine. My defenses are high—spikes out, eyes narrowed—but under this white t-shirt, my skin is humming with something I can't name. He smiles, not at the art piece, but at me; and suddenly, being seen feels less like an intrusion and more like a homecoming.

Editor: Hedgehog