I wake before the city remembers itself.

Floorboards remember footsteps.
Walls hold yesterday’s breath.
Even silence feels shared here.

I live with my family.

That is why mornings are careful.

I wake before anyone needs me.
Before my mother’s work bag rustles.

I leave my room quietly.

It is Sunday.

I know because nothing is in a hurry.
Because the light arrives gently,
as if asking permission.

I sit on the edge of my bed
and reach for my headphones.

Not for music.
Not for sound.

I wear them because they make sense to people.

Because silence looks intentional when it is framed.

Because strangers stop tilting their heads with questions in their eyes.

Headphones mean choice.
Not absence.

Outside, the morning is still learning how to exist.

I walk.

Walking early is different.
The air is cool enough to stay.
The sky has not decided its color yet.
The world has not put on its noise yet.
It moves carefully, like it does not want to wake itself.

That morning, I go to the park before my shift.

The sun is low and unsure.
When it touches my skin, it does not burn.
It rests.

Children run without direction.
Their laughter reaches me only through movement—
open mouths, bouncing shoulders, air breaking around them.

An old couple walks slowly, hands folded together as if they have nowhere else to be.
Their steps are small.
Their closeness is not.

I sit on a bench and watch.

Watching is not loneliness for me.
It is participation without demand.

A woman passes by, holding her child’s hand.
She walks carefully, as if the ground might change its mind beneath them.
The child keeps looking back, distracted by everything.

I smile.

It happens without permission.

The sun rises a little more.
Light reflects from somewhere—
a window, a bottle, something ordinary—
and reaches my eyes too sharply.

That is when I see her.

She is already there.

Her hair moves with the air, not against it.
It lifts, settles, lifts again—
as if it understands rhythm even when the world does not.

Her eyes are not loud.
They are deep.
Not like water that sparkles—
like water that keeps its secrets.

Her lips rest naturally,
curved the way waves pause before breaking.

She sits beside me on the same bench.

Not close enough to invade.
Not far enough to ignore.

I feel my shoulders tighten.

Headphones are still on.
I do not remove them.

People misunderstand pauses.

I stand.

Too fast.

I do not look back.

Leaving is a habit I learned early.

The convenience store smells the same every morning.

Coffee.
Paper.
Cold air from machines that never sleep.

The lights flicker once before staying on.
The shelves wait exactly where I left them.

Work is simple.

Scan.
Count.
Arrange.

Routine does not stare at you.

Customers come slowly on Sundays.
Early risers.
People who want nothing more than bread, milk, routine.

I nod.
I point.
I write prices when needed.

Some people smile politely.
Some do not notice me at all.

Both are acceptable.

Between customers, my eyes drift to the entrance.

I do not know why.

The door opens.

Light enters first.

Then her.

I recognize her immediately—

not because of her face,

but because the bench returns to me all at once.

My hands hesitate.

She looks around the store once.
Then her gaze finds me.

I look away.

Only then does something unfamiliar rise in my chest.

A tightness.
A heat.

A thought I did not have at the park.

Did she think I left because of her?

The idea settles badly.

She walks closer.

I focus on the counter.
On the labels.
On the arrangement of things that do not ask questions.

She stops in front of me.

Too close.

I wait for her to speak.

She does not.

I risk a glance.

She is watching me—
not with curiosity,
not with confusion.

With calm.

As if she has already decided
that my silence is not a problem to solve.

She asks something.

I freeze.

Because I suddenly care
how my leaving might have looked.

I do not know her name.
I do not know what she thinks of me.
I do not know why this moment feels heavier
than the one in the park.

I only know this—

She did not misunderstand my silence.

And for reasons I cannot explain yet,
that matters.

To be continued…

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