The Steam Between Us and Everything Else

A paper cup. Heat seeping through cardboard into my palms—a small, portable sanctuary in the middle of Tuesday’s rush.
I am sitting on this wooden ledge and I can feel the city breathing against me: the hum of tires over asphalt, a distant siren crying out for someone else's tragedy, the smell of roasted beans and damp concrete. My white linen pants are too wide for my frame; they hold space around me like an embrace I didn’t ask for but now cannot do without.
He is just across from me—not in sight yet, only a presence felt through the vibration of his footsteps on the pavement. We don't talk about how we broke each other three years ago. Instead, we trade fragments: 'How was your flight?' and 'The weather is turning.'
I look at him through white-rimmed lenses that blur the world into a soft glow. He notices my necklace—the silver chains clinking softly against my skin like small bells announcing an arrival.
He reaches out, not to touch me, but to adjust the collar of my top where it had folded slightly under itself. His fingertips brush my neck for half a second longer than necessary; a single spark that ignites every dormant nerve ending from here down to my toes.
I sip my coffee and let him see me through the steam—a woman who has learned how to be alone but is now remembering exactly why it’s better not to be. The city keeps roaring, but between us, there is only a quiet, warm silence that feels like coming home after an eternity in exile.

Editor: Kaleidoscope