The Texture of Us

The city breathes in neon and exhaust, a constant hum against the glass. But here, on these concrete steps, the world softens into a blur of amber lights. I sit in the silence you left behind, my skin still holding the ghost of your touch.
It wasn't a grand gesture. It was just the way your thumb traced my collarbone—a slow, deliberate map of belonging. In this vast metropolis of noise, that small movement felt like a sanctuary.
My heart beats in time with the distant traffic, but it settles when I close my eyes and remember your breath against my neck. You are the healing I didn't know I needed, a quiet warmth in a cold city. I am not alone; I am simply waiting for the next time our pulses align.

Editor: Pure Linen