Some figures don’t leave footprints, just hue.
I had seen it coming—
that streak of pink cutting through the gray.
Not just movement, but something deliberate. A soft defiance against the silver hush of the subway. I waited, let it approach, then pressed the shutter from my knee. Not aiming. Just receiving.
It wasn’t the figure I followed, but the contrast—how a single color could interrupt the city’s practiced indifference. The train kept moving. So did the footsteps. But that flash stayed.
Not sharp. Not still.
But somehow etched.
Maybe that’s how I remember New York best:
not in faces or places,
but in collisions—between motion and feeling, light and weight,
what I planned
and what I could never control.
