I went to the park after my shift.

  I put my headphones on—the same ones she had thrown to the ground

  that day. I’d picked them up after she left, brushed the dust from them,

  fixed one loose wire. They still worked. Not that it mattered.

  The park was settling into evening.

  Light filtered through the trees at an angle that softened everything

  it touched. Leaves moved slowly, whispering to each other in ways I

  could not hear but somehow understood. The air was cooler here, cleaner.

  The city felt farther away.

  I liked parks for that reason.

  They don’t expect anything from you.

  I walked for a while, taking the longer paths. One loop. Then

  another. I didn’t know what I was waiting for, only that I was waiting.

  When I turned a corner near the old benches, I saw them.

  Anya first.

  Then her.

  Aviva.

  They were just entering the park. Anya was talking, hands moving,

  energy intact. Aviva walked beside her, quieter, her steps careful, like

  she wasn’t sure the ground would hold.

  She wore a light-colored dress, simple, the kind that moved gently

  with her. Her hair was loose again, catching the air. She looked smaller

  than I remembered. Or maybe just less certain.

  This was the same park.

  The same bench.

  The first place I had seen her.

  The place I had stood up and left.

  I stopped moving.

  Anya scanned the park, searching. When her eyes found me, she lifted her hand and waved.

  For a moment, I didn’t respond.

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  Then I raised my hand and waved back.

  They started walking toward me.

  I took a few steps too, then stopped again. When we were close, I

  didn’t know what to do with my hands. Or my face. Or the space between

  us.

  Anya was suddenly all movement—hands rising, falling, hovering like

  she was trying to catch the right words mid-air. Her lips moved, then

  stopped. She pressed them together, then bit them lightly.

  Aviva stood beside her, head down.

  Silent.

  Her shoulders were drawn inward, her hands clasped together tightly

  in front of her. She looked like a child on the first day of

  school—present, but wishing she could disappear into the floor.

  Anya cleared her throat.

  “This is Aviva,” she said softly. “You can call her Avi. We all met at the Night Lights show, if you remember.”

  I nodded.

  Aviva kept her head down.

  Anya glanced at her, hesitated, then said her name—this time louder.

  “Avi.”

  Aviva’s head snapped up.

  Her eyes widened slightly, her mouth opening as if a sound had escaped before she could stop it.

  “Haa?”

  The reaction was instant and unfiltered, like she’d been pulled out of her thoughts too suddenly.

  Anya blinked, then hurried on.

  “This is Ariel,” she said, gesturing toward me. “We were all classmates back in school. You know… the rest.”

  Aviva looked at me then—really looked.

  The moment caught me off guard.

  The expression on her face was so unexpected, so bare, that I almost laughed.

  Almost.

  I stopped myself just in time, pressing my lips together, my shoulders tightening as I fought the smile rising in my chest.

  Anya noticed.

  Her eyes flicked between us.

  “We… came to apologize,” she said quickly. “About what happened.”

  She nodded once, as if that settled everything.

  Then, just as quickly, she stepped back.

  “I think,” she said, already retreating, “I should go now.”

  She turned to Aviva.

  “I gave him your number,” she added. “If you can’t say anything, or

  if you feel like texting is easier—he reads. He understands. Okay?”

  Aviva nodded faintly.

  Anya looked at me once more, gave a tight smile, and then left—fast, like a mouse slipping away before anyone could stop her.

  Suddenly, it was just us.

  Aviva didn’t lift her head again.

  The space between us stretched.

  I didn’t know what to say.

  So I waved my hand gently in front of her line of sight.

  She looked up, startled.

  I pointed toward the nearby bench and tilted my head in question.

  She nodded quickly.

  Too quickly.

  We walked over and sat down.

  She kept her legs together, hands folded tightly in her lap,

  shoulders stiff. Her head dipped again, hair falling forward like a

  curtain she hadn’t meant to draw.

  She looked like someone waiting to be told what to do next.

  That’s when I understood.

  She wasn’t afraid of me.

  She was afraid of the moment.

  Of saying the wrong thing.

  Of doing too much.

  Of doing nothing at all.

  The silence stretched between us, unbroken and deliberate.

  And something settled inside me—calm, certain.

  If anything was going to move forward,

  it wouldn’t be because she spoke first.

  It would have to be me.

  The thought stayed in my chest, heavy but clear.

  I didn’t move.

  Neither did she.

  The bench held us both.

  Waiting.

  To be continued…