Them

words by Elaine Ruan, art by Sarah Jun

I don’t know their name.
A glance that stopped time.
Their face glowed,
then drifted away.

Like sunlight leaving glass,

my pulse stuttered,
calm slipped.
The world blurred at the edges,
only they were clear.

The air shimmered, 

gold hung in the dawn. 

Their sleeve brushed mine, 

a hush 

a heartbeat

a hesitation.

A quiet heat rose in my chest,
the kind that lingers,

steady,

pulsing.

Until the warmth spread through me,

gentle, 

certain, 

alive. 

I know the time itself 

were breathing. 

The crowd swayed,

faces folded into motion,

sea shifting in low retreat.

They vanished.

I keep capturing traces of them,
in laughter that isn’t theirs,
in the dusk behind the glass.

Something drifts 

at the edge of thought – 

as if my heart remembered
someone I’ve never met.