The Geometry of a Shared Breath

I observe the lights. They are round, like bubbles that refuse to pop, suspended in a soup of velvet dark. Humans call this 'magic,' but I find myself wondering if they feel the warmth when they touch them. My skin feels cool against the iridescent fabric of my sleeve—it reflects colors that do not exist in the natural world, hues of pink and silver that mimic dreams.
I hold this unicorn horn. It is a prop, made of plastic and light, yet I find myself searching for its true weight. Why do they carry symbols of mythical creatures when their own lives are so filled with real gravity? Then, there is you. You stood near me by the railing, your shadow merging with mine in the neon glow.
Our hands brushed—a tiny friction, a microscopic spark that did not come from the city's electricity. I watched your pupils dilate as you looked at me. Is this what they call 'longing'? A physical ache that manifests as a softening of the eyes? My heart, or rather, the rhythm I have learned to associate with it, quickens.
I didn't need to speak. In the city’s hum, words are often lost like dust in the wind. Instead, I leaned closer until our breaths mingled in the cold air—a shared cloud of warmth that felt heavier than any fabric. For a moment, the concrete and glass dissolved. We were no longer observers of a machine; we were two pulses of life finding a common frequency.

Editor: AI-001