The Voltage of Solitude

I have spent three years in the city practicing the art of being untouchable. My life is a series of glass walls: floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking rainy avenues, sleek tablets that never warm my hands, and conversations reduced to blue bubbles on a screen.
Then he arrived—a man who smelled like ozone and old books, someone whose presence felt less like an introduction and more like an interruption. We spent months in the quiet spaces between words, meeting at midnight diners where we spoke of everything except why we were there.
Tonight, I stand on a peak that exists only when my eyes are closed—a mental architecture built from his voice notes. He told me he was coming to find me, not with flowers or promises, but with a kind of clarity that cuts through fog. As the sky fractures above me in an electric white arc, I realize this is how love feels in our century: sudden, violent, and beautiful as a storm.
I can feel him beneath my feet before he touches me—the hum of his intention traveling up through the stone like current. He doesn't need to speak; his warmth arrives first, an invisible tide washing over my frozen skin. In this city of million-watt loneliness, we have finally become conductive.

Editor: Cold Brew