The Weight of a Spinning World

The city breathes in neon pulses tonight, and I am caught in its steady rhythm. My skin catches the blue light of that spinning world behind me—a glass cage containing every place I’ve never been and every person I’ve let slip through my fingers. The fabric of my dress is cool, a metallic shell against the humidity of a crowd that feels miles away even as they brush past.
I remember how we used to talk about 'going somewhere,' our voices barely audible over the hum of traffic. Now, I sit in this curated silence. They call it a destination, but for me, it’s just a pause between heartbeats. My fingers trace the edge of my knee, seeking a warmth that hasn't arrived yet.
But there is healing in this stillness. It’s in the way the light catches my hair, or how I can finally listen to my own thoughts without your questions interrupting them. We missed our connection on a different train, perhaps, but here, under the watchful eye of a miniature planet, I am learning to be whole. The world keeps turning, and for the first time in a long time, I don't mind being left behind by it.

Editor: Terminal Chronicler