“A Night Painted in Neon” The city had just exhaled — that hour when the traffic hum fades into distant echoes and neon signs blink like sleepy eyelids. I wasn't looking for anything. Just walking… one hand in my pocket, the other loosely holding Friday's burdens. Then I saw her. She was standing by the roadside, not quite under the streetlight but not hidden either — like a poem waiting for the right reader. Tight curls, eyes that didn’t blink too often, and a red jacket that made the night jealous. "Lost?" I asked, not because I thought she was — but because I suddenly was. She smiled, and that alone could’ve ended my search for peace, enlightenment, and a decent late-night snack. “Only if you are,” she said, walking beside me like we’d agreed to it years ago. Next thing I knew, we were in a club that didn’t ask too many questions and played music loud enough to drown doubt. The drinks came. So did the laughter. She danced like gravity was her idea. I tried to keep up — failed — but did it proudly. We talked about everything: the absurdity of reality TV, why cats think they own us, and whether love at first sight was just bad eyesight. Midnight flirted with 2AM, and our feet found the rhythm of leaving. Back at my place, the night got quieter, like it was tiptoeing around us. No pretense. Just two souls, tired of pretending, finding comfort in shared warmth and tangled blankets. By morning, sunlight tiptoed through the curtains. She was still there — curled like a comma in a sentence I didn’t want to end. No promises. Just a moment that didn’t ask to last forever — but would be remembered just the same