The Weight of Silk and Rain

He found me near the old diner, rain slicin’ through the city like a broken promise. I wasn't lookin’ for anyone, see? Just…lost in the static of this town.
I had on that silk camisole under my hoodie—a stupid little rebellion against the grey sky and all the should-haves. He didn’t say nothin’ about it, just offered me a coffee, black like his eyes.
His hands weren't gentle exactly, more…steady when he handed it over. A workin’ man's hands, calloused but careful.
We sat there for hours, watchin’ the city blur outside the window. Didn't talk 'bout nothin' important. Just…the way rain sounds on a metal roof, or how cheap coffee tastes when you haven't slept.
Maybe that was enough. Maybe it wasn’t about fixin’ things, but findin’ someone who didn't flinch at the broken pieces.
He walked me home under his worn-out umbrella and for a moment, I thought he might pull me close. He didn't. But he left somethin’ behind in that silence—a warmth that lingered longer than any touch.
I still see him sometimes, across crowded streets or in the reflection of shop windows. We don’t speak, but we both know...some storms you just gotta ride out with a stranger.

Editor: Street-side Poet