Zed sat on his rooftop, legs dangling over the edge, a notebook in his lap. The city stretched below him—chaotic, beautiful, indifferent. He scribbled lines, crossed them out, started again.
He hadn't heard from Joey since the café. Her silence wasn't cruel—it was contemplative. But it still stung.
Wayne climbed up beside him, carrying two beers.
"You look like a rejected philosopher," Wayne said.
Zed smirked. "I feel like one."
"She's thinking," Wayne said. "That's what she does."
"I know."
Wayne handed him a beer. "You scared?"
Zed nodded. "Terrified."
"Of losing her?"
"Of never really having her."
Wayne leaned back. "You're not used to this."
Zed laughed bitterly. "I'm used to being the guy who leaves first."
Wayne looked at him. "Then don't leave."
Zed stared at the skyline. "I won't."
They sat in silence, the city breathing around them.
Zed opened his notebook and wrote:
She's not a poem.She's the silence between verses.The pause that makes the line matter.
Wayne read over his shoulder. "You're in deep."
Zed smiled. "I know."