The Static Between Heartbeats

The scent of rain on asphalt, it clings to everything, doesn't it?
Like memories. He found me sketching in that little cafe near the park – a place drowning in chipped porcelain and forgotten dreams.
I wasn’t looking for anyone when he sat down, just lost in the grey wash outside the window, trying to capture the way the city breathes even when it's weeping.
He ordered black coffee, no sugar. Said he liked things raw. The audacity of strangers...
His hands, calloused and warm, reached for mine across the table – a silent question in the dim light. I didn’t pull away.
We don't speak much about what brought us here, to this quiet corner of shared solitude. It doesn’t matter. Words feel… insufficient.
Sometimes, just being near someone is enough to feel less broken, you know? A temporary ceasefire in the war inside your head.
And for a woman who collects fragments of stories from strangers, he's become an endless chapter.

Editor: Midnight Neon