Zoe pressed her fingertips against the cold glass, the chill biting into her skin.
Her gaze tracked the scattered motion below: cars drifting lazily through rain-slick streets, a pair of teenagers weaving along the sidewalk, and the distant glow of shard light pulsing like tiny fireflies in the cracks of reality.
She'd been standing here for ten minutes.
No purpose. No plan. Just watching.
She breathed short, shallow puffs onto the glass, fogging it up in uneven clouds.
She traced a line through it with her finger before rubbing it away, leaving nothing but a faint smudge.
The weight of everything felt heavier tonight, like the air was made of something thicker than oxygen.
"You're getting dramatic," she muttered to herself, folding her arms tight against her chest.
The words felt hollow even as she said them.
Dramatic? Maybe.
