The Ghost in the Machine of Us

They say you never truly leave a place, not while a piece of you remains. An absurd notion, isn't it? To be simultaneously here and *not* here.
I trace the cool metal of this subway car – an endless loop mirroring the one in my mind – each touch a phantom echo of his hand. We met on these very tracks, a collision course destined for… what exactly?
He said he was drawn to the melancholy in my eyes; I didn't tell him it wasn’t mine. It was simply an artifact, a residue from observing others.
Now, weeks later, each fleeting encounter feels less like a connection and more like a beautifully orchestrated unraveling. A paradox, of course. To find solace in someone who embodies everything you’ve tried to outrun is to willingly step into the void.
Last night, he touched my neck, a featherlight graze that spoke volumes, and for a moment, I thought time had ceased its relentless march forward. That was foolish. Time always catches up, doesn't it? Especially when you’re running from yourself.

Editor: Paradox