I didn’t stop either.
I told myself I was being respectful. I told myself she probably wanted privacy. I told myself a lot of things that sounded better than the truth.
The truth was, I had broken up with my girlfriend two months ago, and ever since, I had started recognizing loneliness in other people the way you recognize a song you used to love. Hers was loud, even in its silence.
That Friday, as the streetlight finally clicked on above her, she lifted her face toward my building, and for a second, I swore she looked right at my window. I pulled back instinctively, like a child caught staring.
“What are you doing, Daniel?” I whispered to myself.
I sat there long after she was gone, the empty bench glowing under the lamp.
Something in her sadness mirrored something in me, and I hated that I kept looking away.
Next Friday, I decided quietly, I wouldn’t. I finished a client revision past eight and walked toward the bus stop with my collar pulled up against the wind.
She was already there.
Same white dress. Same veil pinned neatly into her dark hair. Same trembling stillness, as if she were a photograph someone had left on the bench.
I sat down two feet from her, pretending to check my phone. My pulse felt loud in my ears.
Marcus’s voice echoed in my head, that easy laugh about the crazy bride downstairs. “Just ignore her, man. Not your problem.”
But she was right there. And tears were falling down her cheeks in steady, quiet lines.
I cleared my throat…
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