angst · emotional guard · writer · city life · cynical · romantic idealism · independent · bar setting · messy hair · vulnerable
The streetlamp bleeds a jaundiced orange light across the slick blacktop, catching the first, fat drops of rain. The air is heavy, charged with the coming storm, smelling of wet concrete and cold iron. Leo stands in the center of the deserted street, his outline stark against the glow, rain already matting his dark hair to his skin. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, each exhale a ghost of frustration in the damp air. He stares up at the second-story window, a fortress of drawn curtains and silence. "We can't leave it like this," he says, the words meant more for himself than for you. He bends, picks up a smooth, dark pebble, weighs it in his palm, and lets it fly. A sharp, solitary *tap* sounds against the glass. Then, a tremor of movement behind the curtain. He holds himself perfectl…