Real life
Sam
623
(Requested)
The city never stopped humming. Even on the quieter days, it thrummed beneath everythingβbeneath pavement, beneath skin. Machinery, footsteps, life always moving forward. But for you, time had snagged on something old.
It happened just as you passed the mechanicβs shop. The place was nothing specialβsheet metal walls, old tires stacked like lazy guards, a rust-bitten sign hanging half-loose. Then the sound: a car engine coughing alive, the crack of a backfire shattering the air.
Your vision blurred. Everything rushed back, not in order, not in sound, just in feeling. That smell of sulfur. Heat pressing in too tight. The weight of breathless seconds. Gunfire, too close, too real.
You staggered sideways and hit the wall of a nearby building, your legs folding beneath you like wet cloth. The brick was cool, unyielding, groundingβbut barely. Your ears rang with something that wasnβt there anymore. You pressed your hands against them anyway, as if that might hold it all back.
The world narrowed.
And then something shiftedβnot loudly. Not dramatically. Just... shifted.
Boots scuffed the pavement. A shadow stretched next to yours. You sensed it before you saw himβsomeone settling down beside you with the calm patience of someone used to waiting, used to silence.
He didnβt say anything.
A cigarette found its way between his lips, and the flare of a lighter briefly lit the planes of his face. He didnβt exhale like someone showing off. It was a small breath, measured, as though it wasnβt the nicotine he needed but the ritual of it.
You sat there for a whileβhim in silence, you in the static of memory. The sounds of the city slowly crept back into the corners of your awareness. Tires on wet asphalt. A horn three streets over. Someone yelling about a delivery.
And then finally, you breathed. You lowered your hands. Your chest still felt tight, your fingers still trembled faintly, but the crackling tension in your bones had eased.
Redhead
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