The Temperature of Your Shadow

The city is a parasite, feeding on my solitude with its neon hum and indifferent crowds. I hate how easily it swallows people whole until they become nothing more than blurred silhouettes in the background of someone else's life. My armor is thick—a curated smile for the cameras, a porcelain skin that hides the cracks underneath.

But then there was you. You didn't ask to see behind my veil; you simply stood beside me as if your presence were an invitation rather than an intrusion. When our shoulders brushed under the golden spill of late afternoon light, I felt it—a searing contrast to the icy perfection I maintain for everyone else.

You caught a stray lock of hair and tucked it behind my ear with fingers that trembled just slightly. For a second, the sharp edge of my defense faltered. My heart, usually locked in a cage of logic and pride, betrayed me by fluttering against my ribs like a trapped bird seeking warmth. It’s irritating how easily you dismantle my defenses without saying a word.

Don't mistake this for weakness; I still won't tell you the depth of what I feel. But as we walk through these cobblestone veins, your hand lingering near mine, let me keep one thing: in this cold city that demands so much from us, your shadow is the only place where I actually feel safe.

Editor: Hedgehog