I follow her out to the balcony, where she stands overlooking the city lights. She does not turn around as I mentally trace every wisp of her blonde hair.
She’s prettier than the reveries that painted the backdrop of my younger years, and brighter than every star in the constellation that I dreamt up in my darkest hour.
I take a breath as she looks to me with those bright eyes.
In that moment, I think about a fragment in time when I belonged to a man who played guitar. The softest of eyes as he asked about the messages that lit up my screen in the dead of the night. And I shouldered another white lie as I fell asleep in his bed.
Those were the lost days.
And here I stand tonight, on the fiftieth floor of a hotel whose name I have already forgotten, wanting to ask her if this is all in my head.
Instead, I take her hand in mine, wondering for another night if this could be something more.