"Hey man, where have you been these days? For a moment, I thought you were dead."
"Nah... just getting a better grip on reality."
"That so, huh?"
"Yeah. No point wasting time on someone who's already gone. Better to look ahead than keep digging up graves."
"Now you talkin' like a man."
"I am a man... just need to forget about her. That's all she'd want anyway."
Paul stood from his seat. His chair scraped against the floor, cutting through the noise.
He glanced once toward Varsha, then to her — she'd been staring at him the whole time, quiet and unmoving.
He didn't say anything. Just walked toward the exit, slow, careful.
His steps had that same tired weight; body still aching even after the medicine.
The voices behind him kept going, fading as the door closed.
Forget about it. Move forward. Let it go.
If you go deeper, it'll eat you. Destroy you.
That's what people say. Even I've thought about it. Maybe you too? Haven't you thought of just... letting it all go? At least once?
But that's for the weak, you know that, right?
When they can't face the truth. Can't handle their responsibilities. What they've done.
It's the best excuse. It's not understanding if you can't bear the truth—
it's running. Running far, far away just to escape.
If you can't gaze into the abyss until it stares back—
"Same as usual? Two by two?"
He nodded.
Look at him. Nice, kind, generous, or whatever you call it. He's got one job—to remember. That's all.
He doesn't need to lie to himself. Why? Because he doesn't have to.
He doesn't wear masks like you, or the others.
He isn't running from anything.
His whole life is built around remembering—and not forgetting.
Repeating the same cycle every day.
Like following the same damn script.
Look around yourself. Don't you feel it?
Same faces. Same actions. The same conversations.
From waking up, to going to school, to hearing the same lectures—again and again.
Without missing a beat.
But she... she's different.
Varsha Grayson.
The reason I'm here. Stuck in this loop.
You can tell she's a little different from the moment you see her.
Maybe you can hear her thoughts.
Maybe you can tell why she's like that.
Maybe you can tell she's alive.... Real.
You still remember that question you asked me?
Why don't I like coming to this place...
I've been thinking about it—and realized, I don't hate this place.
Doesn't mean I like it though.
What I hate... is me.
The one stuck here.
"What happened to your hand?"
He turned to her.
"Little burned," he said.
"Hm..." She tilted her head a little, eyes narrowing. "Let's see."
She pushed herself closer before he could move back. Her gaze flicked over the bandage, then up to his face.
"All I see is a liar."
Paul said nothing.
He just looked down at his hand, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.
"Well, I can pretty much tell the story." She smirked.
"Whatever..." Paul said weakly.
The wind brushed past them, carrying the faint shouts from the playground behind.
She closed her eyes for a moment, picturing it—the moment his walk turned into a stumble, the bruises blooming under the sleeve, the bandage that looked anything but fresh.
His face told another story entirely.
She snapped back. "Another fight? And you were beaten worse than street dogs this time. But how?"
She waited, curiosity flickering like a match. Paul didn't reply.
"Were they strong?"
"He," Paul corrected her.
"Single dude?" She blinked. "Can't believe it. Single...? I mean like— dymm. Was he stronger than those three guys?"
"He was."
"How much?" Her curiosity grew.
He raised his bandaged hand.
She exhaled, adjusting her tone. "Yeah... ain't hard to guess."
A few seconds of silence passed. The metal bench creaked softly beneath them.
"Still... who won though?" she blurted out.
"I don't know." Paul replied.
"You don't know?" she muttered to herself, brows tightening. "Who was standing at the end?"
He turned his head toward her. His face unreadable. But she understood.
"Really??" she whispered.
From the way he looked—injured, drained—it was hard to tell if he was the one left standing.
Then what happened to that guy?
Her chest tightened. A faint chill crawled up her spine.
"You didn't kill him, ...did you?" Her tone tried to sound teasing, but the words came out thin.
"He was breathing," Paul said.
"Breathing... He didn't then..." Her voice faltered. The meaning twisted in her chest.
"Wait—what? What did you mean he was breathing? And why the hell do you sound so casual? Like it's your every Saturday thing."
Paul stayed silent.
"I don't even know what to say..." She leaned back, pulse rising.
The wind caught her hair, brushed it across her face.
"The way you say things like that so casually—I want to believe it's just a lie. But then again..."
She turned to him, voice low.
"I've seen it myself."
She stretched her arms with a lazy yawn, her shoulders rolling as if to shake off the weight of the day. The air between them was mild, brushed by the distant sound of the playground—children laughing, sneakers hitting the court, a whistle blowing somewhere far off. She glanced sideways at Paul, studying him for a moment, then deliberately leaned closer and pressed her hand against his bandaged one.
A sharp breath left his mouth, the sound rough and low. His brows tightened, jaw flexing.
"Oh… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to," she said quickly, her tone coated with false innocence. "It really hurts, doesn't it? I can tell."
"Not much." Paul brushed it off, his tone quiet, flat.
"Hm." She smiled faintly, the kind of smile that knew more than it should. "Is that so…"
Before he could move, her hand shot forward, trying to grab his again. Paul jerked it away instantly, eyes narrowing. "Are you retarded?" he muttered, his voice calm but edged.
She blinked, unfazed. "Didn't you just say it doesn't hurt?"
He didn't answer, only stared back at her. The silence hung between them, heavy but fragile.
Mia exhaled, letting her shoulders drop. "That's what I'm talking about," she said quietly. "You don't always have to act tough. If it hurts, then say it."
Paul looked away, toward the playground. The noise in the background blurred into a single hum. His gaze dropped to his hand. Slowly, he tightened it into a fist. Pain flared up—sharp, pulsing beneath the bandage. It hurt. Of course it did.
He loosened it quickly when he saw a faint line of red start to bloom through the cloth.
"Well, since I'm very nice," Mia said, tone bright again, "I can give you a hand. What do you say? I'm a very good chief—you just have to say it."
Her hand reached for his again, playful, hovering inches from his fingers.
Paul's hand snapped back instantly. "No." His voice came low. "You better stay out of this."
"Yeah, yeah," she scoffed, leaning back against the bench. "I'll stay out of it. But…" her voice lowered, playful yet sharp, "what about her?"
Paul turned slightly, his brow creasing. "Her?"
"Oh, don't play dumb with me." She was watching the playground now, the way the sun hit the swings, the wind carrying faint laughter. "I've seen how she talks to you. Like she knows you better… more than me."
She turned back, catching his eyes. "So tell me what is it? What are you running from?"
He didn't blink. His gaze didn't waver.
"You talked with her?" Paul asked, his tone calm but his hand twitched slightly against his leg.
"Maybe…" she said, her voice lilting with amusement. "Maybe not."
The quiet stretched again. Paul's expression didn't change, but inside his thoughts turned dark. For a fleeting second, he imagined his hand around her throat— Don't.
Then he drew in a breath, long and steady, and looked away.
She doesn't know anything. No one knows anything.
Anyway," she said, breaking the silence. Her voice was light, casual. "You heard the latest news?"
Paul didn't look at her. "No."
"Well, that's your thing, I guess." She gave a small shrug, eyes following a group of students across the playground before turning back to the front. "But there've been a lot of car accidents lately."
"Lot of?"
"Yeah—like five or six just this week. Doesn't that sound weird to you?" she said, almost amused. "Two of them were fatal, too. Feels like too much for coincidence."
Paul said nothing, just adjusted his posture slightly, eyes half-closed against the sunlight.
"I mean," she continued, "maybe it's all just bad luck, right? Wrong time, wrong place. But…" She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "There are rumours going around. And they say something different."
"Different?" Paul asked quietly.
"Yeah." Her tone dropped even lower, just above a whisper. "They say these weren't accidents. Someone's been doing it deliberately. The first victim—I don't remember his name—but the report said he was a hard worker. And get this: people are saying that after he died, he never really left. That he's still wandering the city. Because before his death, he found out his crash wasn't an accident at all. It was planned."
Paul's eyes shifted slightly. "Don't believe in rumours," he said. "Not until you've seen them yourself."
"Yeah, but that's the thing," she said, smiling faintly. "How can you see someone who doesn't exist? Like a—ghost, maybe." Her eyes glimmered with mischief. "Can you accuse someone of murder if they're already dead?"
"Sounds absurd."
"Yeah, right."
"You shouldn't believe in rumours."
"Who said I do?" she shot back with a smirk. "I was just sharing it. You never share anything anyway."
Paul gave a faint nod and pushed himself up from the bench.
"Where you headed now?" she asked.
"It's time," he said simply.
"Time really does fly, huh…" She leaned back, stretching again. "I'll join you later."
He didn't wait for her reply—just turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the noise of the school grounds.
Mia stayed where she was, her eyes following him for a while before drifting to the playground again.
"Weird as ever," she whispered to herself, almost smiling.