I didn't tell anyone. Not about the drawings. Not about her. Some stories aren't meant to be shared with the world—just with one person, even if they never read them.
It took me weeks to finish. Some nights I'd draw until my eyes stung. Some mornings I'd wake just to shade in a shadow I had forgotten. And when it was done, I didn't celebrate. I just sat with it in my lap. Quietly. Like one does with memories too fragile to fold away.
I printed a single copy. Matte pages. Soft cover. No title.
No dedication.
No name.
Only a story of silence, glances, and a girl who never stayed long enough for words.
I didn't know if she'd ever return to that bench. Or if she'd moved cities. Or if I'd imagined half of her.
But I went back anyway.
The morning was pale and cold, the kind that makes you tuck your hands into your sleeves. I placed the book on the bench, right in the center. No note, no string, no explanation. Just the book, closed and still, waiting like I once did.
Then I walked away.
Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just far enough to let it go.
I didn't turn back.
If she came, if she saw it—good.
If someone else took it—so be it.
But for once, the silence between us had a voice. And it was made of pages.