Static on the Radio, Warmth in Your Sweater

The city outside is a jagged mess of neon and exhaust, but in here, the world shrinks to the size of this mattress. I can still hear the distant rumble of the subway beneath our floorboards—that constant, mechanical heartbeat that reminds me we’re alive amidst all this concrete.
My skin feels cool against the sheets until you lean in close enough for my shoulder to catch your warmth. This oversized sweater smells like laundry soap and rain-damp asphalt; it's a comfort I didn't know I was starving for until tonight.

I make that small sign with my fingers, not because it’s cute, but because it feels like an anchor in the quiet. 'Are you still awake?' your voice barely carries over the hum of the fridge. My answer is written in the way I lean toward you, letting the light from the streetlamp hit just enough of our faces to blur everything else out.

We don't need big speeches or cinematic gestures tonight. Just this—the shared breath between us while we watch shadows dance on the wall. In a city that demands so much from us every second of the day, being still with you is my only rebellion. It’s not just about staying in; it’s about finding home in someone else's heartbeat.

Editor: Alleyway Friend