With the sun's radiance absent from the sky, the world was reduced to a twilight dusk. Streetlamps fizzled on, but their light collapsed inward, seeming to fall in on itself in a chorus of pops and whirs.
My hand found its way into yours, slowly, the mere touch a comfort in the dim and screaming world.
“Are you alright?” I asked, barely audible over the cacophony in the streets.
You nodded, but whispered your fears in my ear, near-silent mouthings that I couldn’t defend you from. You were a writer, once, mind ablaze with thoughts and ideas: and that creative mind had come back, concocting the best and worst out of the situation at hand.
I hushed your streaming words, urging you to stay silent among the screams. You couldn’t, though, not when there was so much you had to get out, had to say. Through the darkness I knew your eyes were searching for mine, trying to display your need of my listening ears.
A sigh escaped my lungs, soft and warm. Somehow, I knew you had a weak smile tittering at the corner of your lips, though it was soon removed as words flowed from your imagination into mine.