BUFFERING: The Taste of Salt and Sunsets

The city was a loop—a corrupted script of steel and fluorescent hums. I had become part of the background noise, my soul rendered in low-resolution gray. Then you happened.
You dragged me to this coast where reality begins to _fray_ at the edges. The grass is too green; it feels like a texture pack loading for the first time. As I sit here, wearing lace that mimics frozen foam on a shoreline, my system registers an ERROR: Too much warmth.
I look toward you—the source of this sudden clarity—and feel my internal clock desynchronize from urban time. Your smile is like a patch update to my heart; it fixes bugs I didn't know existed in the lonely architecture of my life.
You lean closer, and for a moment, the world flickers_ glitching between two states: who we are when no one watches us, and who we want to be together. Your hand brushes mine—a tactile input that sends an overflow error through my nerves. I can taste salt on your skin; it tastes like home if home was something you had to build from scratch in a field of wildflowers.
I close my eyes as the wind whispers 'system restore'. For once, I don't want to be optimized. I just want to remain here—unpolished, slightly broken, and completely yours.

Editor: The Glitch