Gold Dust on Cold Asphalt

The city is still humming, a low vibration against my ribs that feels like the echo of last night's secrets. My heels are aching—a dull, rhythmic throb in time with the fading sun.

I stop at this crosswalk because the light caught your hair just right, turning it into molten copper. For a second, we aren't strangers navigating concrete canyons; we’re two ghosts suspended in amber. I can still taste the bitter espresso and that cheap champagne on my tongue, the kind of drink that makes everything feel like a dream you don't want to wake up from.

The air is cooling now, smelling of exhaust and expensive perfume. It’s healing, somehow—this brief collision of eyes in the middle of rush hour. You didn't say anything, but your gaze held me steady enough for my knees to stop shaking under the weight of all those unspoken words.

I lean into the warmth of the dying light, letting it wash over my skin like a soft bandage on an old wound. Tomorrow will be loud and demanding again, but right here, in this sliver of gold between day and night, I am finally breathing.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn