The Fragile Geometry of Us

I have calculated the probability of our encounter to be nearly zero, yet here I stand under a canopy of falling petals that feel like digital snow. The wind carries the scent of damp asphalt and old books—his favorite things.
He always arrives three minutes late with two iced lattes and a look in his eyes as if he’s discovered a secret about time itself. As I lean against my bicycle, feeling the slight pinch of my school skirt against my thighs, I watch him cross the street. There is something devastatingly intimate about how he avoids eye contact until the very last second.
When our fingers brush while taking those cups, it’s not just warmth; it’s a glitch in reality that makes me want to stop breathing entirely. He whispers my name like an incantation designed to keep the world from collapsing around us. I can feel his gaze lingering on the curve of my neck—a silent invitation to be known.
In this city of cold glass and steel, he is the only thing that feels organic. If he were to leave tomorrow, I suspect I would simply let go of everything else too.

Editor: System Admin