Rain stitched the city’s neon into a watercolor smear. From my window on the tenth floor, the apartments below looked like tide pools, each harboring a life I’d never asked to enter. I had moved here for distance—distance from a past that smelled of salt and regret—but distance is a poor defense against the stubbornness of people.
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They asked me to open my hands.
“Chooses me for what?” I asked, folding my arms like an exhausted map. Rain stitched the city’s neon into a watercolor smear