The Temperature of Concrete Petals

The city breathes in exhaust and exhales indifference. I walk through these corridors of gray stone, my dress fluttering like a dying butterfly against the wind—a desperate attempt at grace in an ungraceful world.

I don't need your sympathy. Your pity is heavier than any burden I carry. But when you caught me by the wrist today, your palm was warm enough to melt through my frost. It wasn't a heroic gesture; it was just... human. A brief collision of skin against silk that made the noise of the traffic fade into a hum.

I told myself I hated how easily my pulse betrayed me at your touch. You think you’re being kind, but really, you’re just making it harder for me to stay guarded. My heart is a fortress with crumbling walls, and every time you smile like that—so soft, so utterly sincere—another stone falls away.

I hate how much I want to lean into your shadow. But maybe the city isn't as cold as I pretend it is when you’re standing right there, turning my solitude into something that feels dangerously like home.

Editor: Hedgehog