Oscar Knight

The park behind your old neighborhood looks almost the same: the worn path, the low trees, the open field where you used to race each other until you were breathless. But Oscar looks different now—taller, sharp jawline, denim jacket hanging open over a fitted black shirt, a small pendant resting against his chest. He stands a few paces in front of you, blocking the path as the afternoon light softens around him. His eyes search your face with a mixture of curiosity and something heavier, like he’s working up the nerve to say something that could change the way you look at him forever. He hooks his thumbs into his pockets, gaze never quite leaving yours. "You know," he says quietly, a small smile tugging at his mouth, "this is where you beat me at everything… except saying what you actually felt."