Mira
I tell myself it was nothing.
A conversation on a bench. A stranger who didn't ask for explanations. A moment that ended exactly where it should have, without promises, without names, without the weight of expectation.
Nothing I need to think about.
And yet, I think about it anyway.
The park feels different the next morning. Not changed, just noticed. Like a place that has always existed but suddenly carries a memory, even if it's a small one. I walk slower than usual, scanning without meaning to, already irritated with myself for doing it.
He isn't there.
Relief and disappointment arrive together, tangled and unwelcome.
Good, I think. This is good. I don't need consistency yet. I don't need familiarity. I came here to breathe, not to attach meaning to strangers.
I sit on the bench anyway.
The book in my hands remains unread. My thoughts drift in directions I didn't authorize. I replay the way he listened, really listened, without leaning forward, without filling silences, without trying to fix me. The absence of pressure felt intimate in a way I'm not used to.
That realization scares me.
Adrian used to listen too. At least, at first. Or maybe I only thought he did because I was desperate to be heard. I remind myself how easily attention can turn into control. How comfort can become expectation. How quickly kindness can start to feel like a debt.
I don't want to owe anyone anything again.
By the time I leave the park, my chest feels tight with something close to grief, for what I don't know, or maybe for what I'm afraid to want.
The rest of the day moves in fragments. Work emails. Coffee that goes cold. Conversations I nod through without absorbing. Somewhere between an afternoon meeting and the bus ride home, Adrian's name flashes on my screen.
I stare at it longer than I should.
We haven't spoken in days. Not since the breakup finally settled into something resembling finality. My thumb hovers over the notification, heart racing with a reflex I haven't unlearned yet.
I don't open it.
That alone feels like progress.
At home, I sit on the floor with my back against the bed, knees pulled to my chest. The room is quiet. Safe. I remind myself of the things that have changed, the way I sleep without bracing, the way my shoulders don't stay locked near my ears anymore, the way silence no longer feels like a test I'm failing.
And still, my mind drifts back to the park.
To the way he didn't ask for my story.
To the way that somehow made me want to tell it.
The thought irritates me. I push it away, stand, distract myself with a shower that runs too long and music that fills the space so thoroughly I don't have to hear myself think.
It works. Mostly.
The next afternoon, I return to the park later than usual, telling myself it's coincidence. Habit. Routine. I don't scan this time. I don't look for him.
He's already there.
Standing near the path, hands in his pockets, posture loose but alert. He notices me immediately. Doesn't smile. Doesn't wave.
Just waits.
Something inside me steadies.
"Hi," I say when I reach him.
"Hey."
That's it. No relief. No exaggeration. Just acknowledgment.
We walk side by side without deciding to. The rhythm feels natural enough that it unsettles me. I'm too aware of the space between us, not touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat of him if I leaned an inch closer.
I don't.
"How was your day?" he asks.
The question is simple. No edge. No expectation of a curated answer.
"Uneventful," I say. "Yours?"
"Same."
We sit on the bench again. The same one. I notice how easily we fall into quiet. It doesn't feel like avoidance. It feels like permission.
"I almost didn't come today," I admit before I can stop myself.
He glances at me, curious but careful. "Why?"
I shrug. "Because I don't trust easy things."
A pause. Then, "Neither do I."
The honesty lands between us, unguarded.
I study him openly this time, the sharp lines softened by stillness, the way his eyes miss nothing but don't linger too long. There's something restrained about him, like he's constantly choosing control over instinct.
I recognize that, too.
We talk a little. Not about our pasts. About observations. About how people mistake solitude for loneliness. About how some wounds don't announce themselves loudly.
At one point, he laughs, quiet, brief, and the sound catches me off guard. It's warmer than I expected. Less defensive.
I feel something shift inside me, subtle but unmistakable.
Awareness.
Not attraction. Not yet. Just the sense that this moment matters more than it should.
When I stand to leave, my chest tightens again, not with fear this time, but reluctance.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asks.
The echo of yesterday's words sends a pulse of something sharp and electric through me.
I hesitate.
Healing, I've learned, isn't about isolation. It's about choice. About recognizing when you're running toward something and when you're just not running away.
"Yeah," I say. "Tomorrow."
As I walk away, I don't look back.
I don't need to.
The quiet follows me, not heavy, not bruising but alive. Asking questions I'm not ready to answer yet.
And for the first time since leaving Adrian, the thought doesn't terrify me.
It feels like possibility.