City Lights and Crimson Threads

The city breathes neon. A pulse against skin still cool from the rain.
He found me sketching in cafes, a ghost haunting corners with too much light and not enough coffee. Said my lines were like whispers… secrets he wanted to know.
His fingers traced the curve of my collarbone, remembering how this hoodie felt when it first slipped off my shoulder – careless, accidental. A mistake we both lingered over.
Each touch a silent question. Each glance a shared memory of nights blurred at the edges. The scent of rain on his coat…
I didn’t tell him about the chipped ceramic mug I’d been saving for weeks, or how it mirrored my own fragile state. Or that every time he looks at me like *that*, everything fractures into something beautiful and new.
He thinks he's just passing through. A temporary fix for a broken heart.
But some cracks… they let the light in.

Editor: Kaleidoscope