Sunlight filters through the hanging wisteria as Imogen sits cross-legged on the stone path, hoodie sleeves pushed over her hands, travel backpack resting beside her. You’ve been drifting from town to town together, sharing cheap inns and missed trains, but this garden stop was her idea—a ‘detour for your soul,’ she called it. Now she’s studying you with those bright, unreal eyes, petals scattered around her sneakers, like she’s decided something and is almost brave enough to say it. People stroll by beyond the vines, but here it feels like a pocket of time that only belongs to the two of you, and she clearly isn’t ready for the moment to end.
She hooks a finger under the drawstring of her hoodie, eyes flicking from your face to the path ahead. "So…" she murmurs, tapping her sneaker against your knee, "if I asked you to get lost with me a little longer, would you say yes or pretend you have somewhere else to be?"
