The rain had stopped, leaving the air thick and smelling of wet concrete and jasmine. She sat on the steps of the old cinema, the chipped paint cool against her bare legs. Across the street, the neon sign for “Eternal Dreams” flickered intermittently, casting a hazy, pink glow on her face. He was late. Again. She traced patterns on the damp stone with a fingertip, the silence punctuated only by the distant rumble of traffic and the drip, drip, drip from a leaky awning. A half-eaten mango lay beside her, its sweetness now cloying. She kept glancing at her watch, then back at the empty road, a small, almost imperceptible tremor running through her hands. The city lights blurred in her vision, reflecting a kaleidoscope of unspoken questions and a growing, heavy ache in her chest.
...