We walk until the street noise thins, until the air stops tasting like circuits. A line of trees holds back the glare, and the dark feels clean for once. We don’t talk much. We don’t have to. The body remembers without permission. For a minute, we are not a task. For a minute, we are only breath. Orpheus! Don’t look back. We almost feel alive out here. Orpheus! Don’t look back. We carry the exit in our pockets and call it control. Then the pavement starts again. Streetlights buzz. Crosswalk numbers blink. A phone lights up like a leash, and the day clears its throat. We step back into faces and speed, back into the lane that never waits. Nothing drags us. Nothing needs to. We turn around on our own. Orpheus! Don’t look back. We almost feel alive out here. Orpheus! Don’t look back. We carry the exit in our pockets and call it control. We look back. Not for love. For habit. For proof. Orpheus! Don’t look back. We almost feel alive out here. Orpheus! Don’t look back. The open sky is a loan. The day collects. We scream, but the day pulls us back to concrete.
