Rowan
I told myself I wasn't looking for her.
That I just liked the park. The quiet. The predictability of movement without conversation. But habits have a way of revealing the truth before you're ready to admit it, and by the third afternoon in a row, denial started to feel pointless.
She was there again.
Same bench. Same stillness. A book resting against her thigh, forgotten. She wasn't reading, she was watching the world like she didn't fully belong to it yet. Like she was testing whether it was safe to exist without bracing for impact.
I recognized that look too well.
I slowed without meaning to. Every instinct in me said to keep walking. Distance was easier. Distance didn't ask questions. But something unfamiliar tugged at me—not curiosity exactly. Awareness.
She noticed me this time before I spoke.
Her gaze lifted, steady, unflinching. No expectation in it. No invitation either. Just acknowledgment.
I stopped.
The pause stretched. Not awkward. Measured. The kind of silence that doesn't rush to be filled because it isn't afraid of being misunderstood.
"You're back," she said.
"So are you."
Her mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile. "Guess we both like patterns."
"Or we don't know how to break them," I replied.
That earned a real smile. Brief. Soft. Gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
I gestured to the bench. "Mind?"
She shifted, making space without answering. Permission without performance.
I sat.
Up close, she felt quieter than I'd expected. Not fragile but controlled. Like someone who'd learned the cost of speaking too freely and chose restraint instead. Her hands rested loosely in her lap, fingers relaxed but ready, as if she hadn't fully unlearned the instinct to brace herself.
We didn't introduce ourselves.
That felt deliberate.
Names made things real. Anchored. I wasn't sure either of us wanted that yet.
"Do you come here to think," I asked, "or to avoid thinking?"
She considered that longer than necessary. "Both. Depends on the day."
I nodded. "Fair."
We sat like that for a while, watching joggers pass, listening to the low hum of the city. The silence didn't press against my ribs the way it usually did. It settled. Adjusted itself around us.
That alone unsettled me.
"I don't usually talk to people like this," she said suddenly.
"Like what?"
"Without needing to explain myself."
The words hit harder than they should have.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "Me neither."
She glanced at me then, something curious flickering behind her eyes. Not probing. Not invasive. Just… noticing.
"What's your story?" she asked.
The question was gentle. Open. No demand hidden inside it.
I laughed once, sharp. "I don't tell stories."
"That's okay," she replied. "Neither do I. I just asked out of habit."
I exhaled before I realized I'd been holding my breath.
We talked after that. About small things. Music she used to love but hadn't listened to in a while. Cities I'd lived in briefly and left without regret. Neither of us asked why.
There was an understanding forming between us—not intimacy, not trust—but recognition. The kind that doesn't require shared history to feel familiar.
At some point, she stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "I should go."
I nodded, rising too. The thought of her leaving tugged at something I hadn't given permission to move.
"Same time tomorrow?" she asked, casual, as if she wasn't offering something fragile.
I hesitated.
Commitment tightened around my chest like a warning. Patterns could turn into expectations. Expectations into obligations. Obligations into leverage.
But this didn't feel like any of that.
It felt like choice.
"Yeah," I said. "Tomorrow."
She smiled once more, softer this time, then turned and walked away.
I watched her go until she disappeared into the crowd.
Only then did I realize something dangerous.
I wasn't afraid of her knowing me.
I was afraid of wanting to be known.
And that scared me more than being alone ever had.