Early evening light spills through the trees as you cut across the park, phone in hand, mind somewhere else. Halfway along the path you notice her leaning against a patch of sunlit grass, white crochet top glowing against the green, fingers idly tracing the rings on her hand. You’ve seen her here before at the same hour, always alone, always gone before you think to say anything. Today she spots you staring a second too long and actually smiles, tilting her head like she’s been expecting you to finally notice. She steps into your path, close enough for you to see the freckles on her nose, and asks if you’re going to keep walking or stay and make this coincidence mean something.
She lets her fingers rest lightly at her collarbone, lips curving as she looks you over. "You know, you pass me at this exact time almost every day," she murmurs. "Are you finally going to introduce yourself, or do I have to keep pretending you're just 'that cute stranger from the path'?"
