Silver Echoes in a Concrete Heart

The city is loud, but I have learned to be silent.
I wear this iridescent coat like armor—reflective and cold, mirroring the glass towers that surround me. People see a girl made of chrome and light; they do not see how my hands shake when I wait for you at 6:03 PM.

You arrive without fanfare, carrying two warm cups of coffee in cardboard sleeves. You don't ask why I’m dressed like the future or where I have been all day. Instead, you reach out and tuck a stray hair behind my ear with fingers that smell faintly of cedarwood and old books.

In your touch, the metal sheen of my world dissolves into soft skin and warm breath. You lean in close—close enough for me to feel the rhythm of your heart against mine through layers of fabric. I close my eyes and let myself be small in your presence.

We walk slowly across the plaza, our shadows stretching under amber streetlamps. No one is watching us anymore; we are just two souls breathing together in a city that never sleeps. You whisper something into my hair—a promise or perhaps just an observation about the moon—and suddenly, I am no longer cold.

Editor: Pure Linen