Neon Static

He always finds me when the city's at its loudest, doesn’t he? Like my own personal static.
Another late night, another escape. I don't bother looking back at the bar, or the lingering glances of men who think a pretty face needs rescuing. He isn’t rescue material; he’s more like…a comfortable silence. A well-worn pair of sneakers on a rainy day.
We walk for blocks without speaking, just the hum of the city and the rhythm of our footsteps. It's stupidly comforting. He knows about the photography show I almost didn’t go to because my ex might be there. Knows how much I hate small talk and forced smiles.
He doesn't ask me to explain myself, or offer solutions wrapped in platitudes. Just walks with me, a quiet presence against the neon glare.
Tonight, though, he slows as we pass a ramen shop, his hand brushing mine. A simple gesture but enough to make my pulse flutter.
I look up and meet his eyes for a beat too long. Maybe comfort isn’t all this is. And maybe, just maybe, getting lost in the static isn't such a bad thing after all.

Editor: Sharp Anna