Adrian hadn't planned on returning to the park. Yet the following Sunday, his steps carried him there as if by instinct. And there she was — Elara, surrounded by her canvases, a brush dancing in her hand.
This time, she greeted him without surprise. "Back again?" she teased, eyes glimmering.
"Maybe I just like the view," Adrian replied before he could stop himself. He meant the painting, but her laugh told him she caught the double meaning.
They talked more that day. About her art, about his work, about little things that somehow felt like big things. Adrian found himself saying things he hadn't voiced in years — how his days felt repetitive, how sometimes he wondered if this was all life had to offer.
Elara listened, but she didn't pity him. Instead, she tilted her head thoughtfully. "Maybe life isn't missing anything. Maybe it's waiting for you to add something."
Those words lingered.
The days that followed were different. Adrian noticed he looked forward to Sundays in a way he never had. He noticed that her laugh stayed in his mind long after he left the park, and that the memory of her scarf, her paint-streaked fingers, her bold way of seeing the world seemed to color his own grey hours.
He didn't call it love. Not yet. But there was warmth building inside him, the kind that no coffee or paycheck had ever given. And slowly, without even realizing, Adrian's heart began to paint its own canvas — with strokes of curiosity, hope, and something dangerously close to longing.