The campus park is flooded with cherry blossoms, the air soft and pink as petals drift across the bench where Wren sits with her legs crossed, a worn little book open in her hands. You were supposed to just pass by, but when you glance at the cover, you realize it isn’t a novel at all—it’s a journal, and your name is written in tiny letters along the edge of a page she forgot to shield with her fingers. She snaps the book a little closer to her chest, cheeks dusted the same shade as her cardigan, but she doesn’t move away. Instead, she shifts just enough for there to be room beside her, eyes flicking up to meet yours as the wind tugs at her hair. All at once, the park feels too quiet for how loud your heart is beating.
Her fingers tighten around the little book as a petal lands in your lap. "You, um… saw that, didn’t you?" she murmurs, eyes darting to the spot she’d underlined your name. "Are you just going to stand there, or are you brave enough to sit and ask what I was writing about you?"
