She Wore the City's Last Light to Find Me Again

I am lying in a pool of pink and violet, the kind of light that only exists after midnight, when the city finally stops pretending. The sequins behind me scatter into stars I cannot reach, and my skin holds a sheen like rain on glass. They tell me this is how one dresses to be seen. But I dressed like this for a different reason: because three years ago, on the last bus of October, I stood by the rear window in an ordinary coat, and you were standing across the road in another ordinary coat, and we looked at each other through two layers of glass as if recognizing a ghost.
We missed each other. The driver pulled away before either of us moved, and the cold air that rushed in when the doors closed was the only warmth I kept for a long time. I learned to wear my longing like armor afterwards - black straps across the chest, buckles where the heart should be soft, chains that hum like a held breath. People see a costume. They do not see that every ring is a date we never took, every strap a promise I was too proud to keep.
Tonight you are here. You did not arrive on a bus; you arrived quietly, in the space between two songs, and when you touch my wrist the metal choker feels less like a cage and more like an anchor finally finding water. The neon bokeh blurs around us into soft violet rain, and I think: this is the reunion I rehearsed a thousand times on that final route, the one where I stop performing for the crowd and let someone see the girl who waited by the window.
So I stay in this iridescent glow, not because it is beautiful, but because it is the color of being found again. The city outside has gone dark, the last bus long gone, and yet here, in this small constellation of light, we are finally on the same side of the glass.

Editor: Terminal Chronicler