His eyes were red-rimmed and hers were gently spilling over. Their hands were together, not clasped, but palms together, fingertips touching. The air between them seemed to sing with emotions that neither of them could adequately voice, but their voices could definitely have evoked.

Anyone else would have found them strange – the boy with the beanie and Louis Vuitton boots and the girl with the babydoll dress and sandals that could’ve come from any three thrift stores – but to the people of this neighborhood, with its high-rise buildings and general agreement of silence about the affairs of it’s occupants, they were right – felt right together.

They had walked three blocks, for once, completely silent. The public secret that everyone knew didn’t belong to them, but at the same time was theirs all the same, followed them and tangled into the little puffs of their breath in the rays of the street lamps. Their strides were almost perfectly matched, skipping over the lines in the sidewalk and patting a slow, but steady rhythm.

He paused suddenly, in front of a news stand with the hottest story of the day plastered across its face. He turned and kissed her forehead, the gesture so simple and chaste yet so intimate that all the eyes that pretended not to be watching had to turn away. It carried such emotion that no one felt they should be looking.

It hurts so bad, he seemed to whisper as his arm slipped around her shoulders and his lips met her hairline.

I know, she seemed to reply as she slipped her arms around him and closed her eyes.