For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, though it was different now, as if his words had shifted something in the air around them.
She tilted her head, studying him, searching for the kind of insincerity she had grown used to in people. But there was none. Just a boy maybe a little reckless, maybe a little broken who had offered her something she hadn't expected: the idea of not being alone.
Finally, she let out a soft laugh, the kind that escapes when the heart isn't sure whether to cry or to smile. "That's… a strange thing to say to someone you just met."
"Yeah," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess I'm strange. But you looked like you needed someone to say it."
Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer, then she shifted on the bench, leaving just enough space for him to sit beside her. It wasn't an answer, not yet. But it was a beginning.
He hesitated only for a moment before sitting down beside her. The bench creaked faintly under the weight of two souls carrying more than they let on.
For a few minutes, they simply watched the park together. The lamps flickered on one by one, casting soft halos of light that stretched across the empty pathways. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, followed by the faint laughter of children heading home.
"Rough day?" he asked, careful not to sound like he was prying.
She drew in a breath, then let it out slowly, her eyes still fixed on the ground. "Rough year," she corrected softly.
He nodded, as if he understood more than she realized. "Same here." His voice was quiet, but it carried the kind of truth that didn't need details.
For the first time that day, she looked at him not with surprise, but with curiosity. "So… do you always walk up to strangers with lines like that?"
He chuckled under his breath. "No. Guess I just… wanted you to know you're not the only one feeling like the world got too heavy."
The corner of her lips curved not a smile, not yet, but the hint of one. And in the stillness of that evening, it was enough.