Chapter 1: Neon

I met Neon on a Tuesday.

Not the kind of Tuesday that feels like a beginning. Not the kind that smells like fresh coffee and new notebooks. No, this Tuesday was gray and heavy, the kind that drapes itself over your shoulders like a wet coat and refuses to let go.

I was sitting on the back steps of the library, headphones in, pretending the world didn’t exist. The rain had just stopped, but the sky still looked like it was holding a grudge. Everything smelled like wet pavement and old paper. I liked it that way. It made the silence feel earned.

That’s when I saw him.

He was leaning against the brick wall like he belonged there, like the world had been built around him and not the other way around. His hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends, black as ink and just as fluid. He had one hand in his pocket, the other brushing his lips with two fingers, like he was trying to hush a thought before it escaped.

He didn’t look at me. Not at first.

But I looked at him.

I looked at the rings on his fingers—three of them, all black, all different. One was smooth and thin, like a whisper. One was thick and ridged, like a secret. The last one was chipped at the edge, as if it had been through something and survived.

He wore them like armor.

His shirt was black, too, with white letters I couldn’t fully read. His jeans were torn at the knees, not in a trendy way, but like he’d actually fallen. Or maybe knelt. Or maybe just didn’t care.

I didn’t know his name yet. But I already knew he was going to ruin something.

He noticed me eventually.

Pulled one earbud out, tilted his head just slightly, and said, “You always sit here?”

His voice was low. Not deep, but quiet in a way that made you lean in. Like he didn’t waste words on people who wouldn’t listen.

“Only when I want to disappear,” I said, before I could stop myself.

He smiled. Not with his mouth—with his eyes. They crinkled at the corners, just a little. Like he’d heard that answer before. Or maybe like he’d said it once, a long time ago.

“I get that,” he said. “I’m Neon.”

I blinked. “Like the lights?”

He shrugged. “Like the ghost of them.”

I didn’t know what that meant. But it stayed with me.

We didn’t talk much that day. Just sat there, side by side, not touching, not asking. The silence between us wasn’t awkward. It was… full. Like a song with no lyrics. Like a memory you haven’t made yet.

When he left, he didn’t say goodbye. Just stood up, nodded once, and walked away.

I watched him go, wondering if I’d ever see him again.

I did.

Too many times.

And never enough.

The second time was a Thursday.

He was sitting on the edge of the fountain in the park, tossing pebbles into the water like they were confessions. I almost didn’t recognize him—his hair was dry, his shirt different, but the rings were the same. Always the rings.

I sat beside him without asking.

He didn’t look surprised.

“You ever think about vanishing?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” I said. “But I think I’d miss being missed.”

He nodded slowly, like that answer mattered.

“I don’t think anyone would notice if I disappeared,” he said.

I wanted to tell him he was wrong. That I’d notice. That I’d feel it like a bruise. But I didn’t. I just watched the ripples in the water and let the silence speak for me.

Neon wasn’t the kind of person you could explain.

He was a mood, a moment, a metaphor. He was the kind of boy who made you write poetry you’d never show anyone. The kind who made you stare at the ceiling at 2 a.m. and wonder if he was staring at it too.

He didn’t tell me much about himself. Just fragments.

He liked storms. He hated loud places. He once broke his wrist punching a wall. He had a sister he didn’t talk to. He didn’t believe in soulmates, but he believed in timing.

“I think timing ruins everything,” he said once. “Even the good things.”

I wanted to ask what his good thing was. But I was afraid of the answer.😔

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