No one speaks after that.
The park is quieter than it was the first time.
Darker sooner.
A dog passes. A couple crosses the path. Distant traffic hums somewhere beyond the trees.
We stay.
I don't check my phone.
Sunny doesn't either.
Zane's hands rest loosely between his knees.
Half a year ago, he would have filled this silence.
Asked three more questions.
Paced.
Pressed.
He doesn't now.
I notice that.
He watches the gravel path instead.
Not impatient.
Just present.
The air cools gradually.
Sunny pulls her sleeves over her hands.
Zane shifts once, then settles again.
No one counts the minutes.
The bench creaks faintly when someone adjusts their weight.
I remember how Laura sat here.
Back straight at first.
Then gradually less so.
How the sky changed around us without either of us commenting on it.
How she spoke in fragments.
I let the same rhythm happen now.
They're waiting for me to continue.
The difference is that Laura hadn't expected anything from me that night.
Sunny and Zane do.
Still, they don't rush it.
That matters.
Zane glances at me once.
Doesn't speak.
Just checking whether I'm about to.
I'm not.
He nods faintly and looks forward again.
Different.
He's different.
Time passes in a way that feels untethered.
The light thins.
The path empties.
No one checks the time.
No one reaches for a screen.
The quiet becomes something shared instead of awkward.
I realize this is the first time the three of us have sat without music, without rehearsal, without direction.
Just… here.
Waiting.
The last time I waited on this bench, it was for Laura to find the words.
Now it's my turn.
The air settles into evening.
And I let it.