Lights, Camera, Altitude.

Always catching light from a better angle, always finding her reflection in passing glass. Like she wants to be seen—but not approached. Like a woman in a red coat who knows she’s being watched but won’t turn around.

You see her in puddles, through chain-link fences, tucked between smokestacks and churches.

One minute, she’s glowing.

The next, she disappears into cloud like a sulking actress who didn’t get the role.

She’s not architecture.

She’s vanity.

She’s transmission.

Some days, I think she’s flirting.

Other days, I think she’s warning me.

But every day, she shows up like she knew I’d be watching.