The sky was the color of dishwater, and the clouds looked like they were too tired to cry.
Zeke sat on the edge of the skatepark ramp, hoodie up, earbuds in, pretending like the world didn't exist. His board lay forgotten beside him, one of the wheels slightly busted from earlier when he'd tried to do something stupid.
Aya plopped down next to him without asking, her usual glow of energy dulled only slightly by the gloom. She swung her legs, kicking at the air like a child on a swing.
"You know," she said, "this place smells like regret and wet socks."
Zeke didn't answer.
She poked his arm. "Hey. Are you alive under there?"
He pulled out one earbud, gave her a look. "What do you want?"
"Nothing. Just thought I'd keep you company while you sulk."
"I'm not sulking."
"Brooding, then. Moody brooding with extra edge. Very mysterious. Very 'I write poetry in the dark."
Zeke let out a tired sigh. "You talk too much."
"Thank you," she said, like it was a compliment. "Most people just think it."
They sat in silence for a minute. The kind of silence where she respected that he didn't want to talk, and he didn't mind that she was there.
Aya leaned back, lying flat on the ramp with her arms folded behind her head.
"Ever just watch clouds and pretend they're not slowly your whole mood?"
Zeke almost cracked a smile. Almost.
She kept talking. "Like that one looks like a duck. That one looks like a shoe. That one looks like-oh. That one looks like the crushing weight of our existence."
He shook his head. "You're insane."
"And you're not denying the duck."
Another silence. This one a little warmer.
Zeke finally said, "I used to come here with my brother."
Aya blinked, surprised he spoke at all. "Oh?"
"Before he moved out. Before everything sucked."
"You miss him?"
Zeke shrugged. "He got out. That's good. I guess."
Aya sat up slowly. "You ever tell him that?"
"No."
"You should. While still can."
He didn't reply. Just pulled his hoodie tighter like he was trying to disappear into it.
"I don't do the feelings thing," he mumbled.
Aya stood, brushing dirt off her skirt. "You don't have to. I'll feel enough for both of us."
Before he could respond, she reached down and offered him her hand.
He stared at it like it was some kind of trap.
"C'mon," she grinned. "There's a vending machine down the street. I'm craving canned coffee and disappointment."
Against all logic, he took her hand.
Not because he wanted coffee.
But because-for once-he didn't want to be alone.
[End of chapter 3]