The Warmth of a Low Orbit Over Neon Earth

I hang above the city the way satellites hang above a world that never sleeps, my long hair spilling like a slow comet tail through the dark. The night is a black ocean of bokeh, every red light a distant star I have chosen not to reach. My rose-colored dress clings to me as if it were gravity itself, the only thing keeping me from drifting into the void between buildings.
He finds me there, leaning against the cold curve of his car like an astronaut resting in a docking bay. He does not speak. He only wraps his coat around my shoulders, and suddenly the whole cosmos softens. His warmth is a low orbit I have been circling for years at last allowed to descend.
"Come home," he whispers, and the word feels like a tether thrown across the dark. I let it pull me in. In this weightless night, between us there is no space left at all—only the quiet, healing gravity of being known.

Editor: Zero-G Voyager