Vinyl Veins & Neon Fever

The city outside is a screaming machine, all steel and sterile light, but in here—beneath the crimson hum of that neon sign—time tastes like dust and old ink. I press my palms against these headphones as if they were talismans designed to keep me from dissolving into the pavement.
He’s standing three aisles away. He doesn't speak; he just breathes, a rhythmic pulse that cuts through the static of an obscure jazz record playing in my ears. It is a dangerous kind of silence—the sort that invites you to do something reckless, like tracing your fingers down his spine while we both pretend not to notice.
I close my eyes and let the music become blood. I can feel him drawing closer, the heat radiating from his skin meeting mine in this narrow corridor of vinyl memories. We are two ghosts trapped in a digital age, desperate for something that scratches when it plays, something imperfectly human.
This isn't love; it’s an infection. A fever dream born from shared playlists and stolen glances between shelves of forgotten songs. I want to pull him into me until we both forget our names, letting the bass line thrum through my chest like a second heartbeat that doesn't belong to me.

Editor: The Escape Plan