The night air, heavy and soft, slipped beneath Sharon's shirt as she left her study class behind. She was only ten, but the world at night felt different, hushed, every shadow stretching further. Her apartment building glowed at the street's end, a tired lighthouse, and each step toward it felt both safe and just a bit strange.
Her feet padded against the rough sidewalk, and she caught the scent of warm dust, distant dinner, and rain that hadn't quite come. She clutched her textbook tighter, not out of fear, she would say, but habit.
Sid, older, taller, loitered under the gate's weak bulb, spinning a cricket ball in his palm. Nearly fourteen, old enough to be both cocky and uncertain, he'd noticed her before, always alone, eyes bright, moving through the world like she wasn't sure if she wanted to be seen or invisible. He wondered if she belonged to any of the familiar families. Maybe she was new. Maybe he'd seen her once, sprinting for the school bus, hair wild, bag bigger than her back.
He tried to look casual, but he was curious. What was she doing out so late? Not many kids her age walked home alone. He timed his pause so their paths would cross. As she drew closer, he softened his stance, no smirk, no swagger.
Sharon's steps faltered when she saw the stranger, older, definitely not a classmate, and somehow familiar in the half-light. He was handsome in a way that didn't mean much to her yet, but there was something about the way he watched the world, steady and self-assured.
"Hey," he said, voice gentler than his friends would expect.
Sharon gripped her bag, searching for something polite to say. "Hello."
"What's your name?" he asked, not demanding, more like he was genuinely interested.
"Sharon," she replied, glancing up, both wary and oddly pleased to be asked.
He nodded, a real smile flickering. "You live in that apartment?" He jerked his chin gently toward her building.
"Yes." She wondered how he knew not that it was a secret, but suddenly privacy seemed rare.
Sid fell into step beside her, careful to match her pace, slower, more deliberate than he was used to. He'd always been the bold one, a ringleader among kids, quick with a joke, but now, walking with this tiny stranger, he felt an odd need to make sure she reached home safely.
As they reached the lift, Sharon pressed the button, fingers trembling but from cold, uncertainty, or something she couldn't name. The doors slid open, golden light spilling out.
Sid, caught off-guard by a burst of affection, maybe sibling-like, just that rare urge to be kind, leaned down, pinched her cheeks softly, and said with a wide, easy grin, "You're so cute."
The elevator's chrome reflected her startled face: wide-eyed, unsure, discomfort, and curiosity knotted together. She didn't feel special or giddy, just small and impossibly young, still a kid, suddenly made aware of that in a way only someone older could do. Was he teasing? Being nice? It wasn't clear. She wanted to ask, but the words stuck.
Sid saw her confusion, and almost wished he hadn't acted on instinct. Four years' difference seemed vast, now he wondered if he'd made her uneasy, if he'd ruined a chance at easy older-brother charm. Still, he hoped, maybe, that tomorrow she'd remember just the smile, or at least if nothing else that the world wasn't all strangers at night.
The lift doors closed with a soft sigh, leaving each alone: Sharon riding upwards, not sure what she'd just experienced, Sid holding a fleeting sense of responsibility and a distant, unfamiliar warmth.
Neither called it love. For Sharon, it was just the first ripple in an ordinary night, a small memory pressed between childhood and whatever came next.