Neon & Lavender

The city hums, a low thrum against my skin. It's the kind of night where every shadow feels like a memory, and the neon reflects in the quiet pools of my thoughts.
He found me here once, lost between ramen shops and karaoke bars, clutching a lukewarm coffee to ward off the chill. He didn’t offer warmth, not at first. Just a shared silence that somehow felt…safe.
Now, even the rain remembers his scent. It lingers on my coat, a phantom touch against the fabric. Silly, isn't it? To find solace in these small echoes.
I adjust the collar of my jacket, a pointless gesture. He’s not coming back. But tonight, as the city lights blur and blend, I allow myself this fragile illusion—the ghost of his hand brushing mine in the rain.

Editor: Laundry Line