The morning light was sharp, slicing through the narrow gaps between the apartment buildings.
The streets were quiet, the town just beginning to stir, but I was already restless.
I had finished my coffee long ago, perched on the edge of the balcony, watching the river glint under the sun, thinking about him,
Ken.
He was waiting.
Not waiting in a way that made me feel watched, or judged, or pressured.
Waiting in the quiet, calm way he always had, steady, unassuming, patient.
And I realized, with a twinge I refused to name, that I wanted to be there too.
He greeted me at the small basketball court just beyond the park.
His hair stuck slightly to his forehead from the morning breeze, and his posture was casual, relaxed, like he had all the time in the world, as if the world itself bent to his rhythm.
"Morning," he said, tossing the ball lightly from hand to hand.
"Morning," I replied, voice flat, hoodie pulled low.
"You play?" he asked, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I don't lose to anyone," I said automatically, the cold edge in my tone sliding out without thought.
He laughed softly. "I'll take my chances."
And just like that, the air between us shifted, competitive, playful, charged.
The first few minutes were awkward.
I wasn't sure if I should take it seriously or treat it as a game, but Ken moved with a calm precision that made me immediately aware of how out-of-practice I was.
He dribbled, spun, and shot with ease, all while glancing at me as if he could read my thoughts.
I hated that.
I hated that it made my heart beat faster.
"You're stiff," he said casually as he blocked my first attempt at a layup.
"I'm warming up," I said, but my voice was clipped.
"Sure." He tossed the ball lightly back to me. "Your call."
I dribbled, trying to find rhythm, trying not to let him see that I was enjoying this.
I was.
Every step, every pivot, every bounce of the ball against the cracked asphalt made me feel… alive.
Free.
Not a star, not a celebrity, not a girl haunted by expectations or heartbreak.
Just… me.
And him.
We played for what felt like hours.
Not in silence, there was laughter, teasing, the occasional jab. "Watch the ball, not my face," he'd say when I got distracted by how easily he moved.
"I'm not distracted," I'd reply, voice sharp, even though I was.
But the banter, the movement, the game itself, it broke down the distance between us in a way I hadn't expected.
I noticed how he always gave me enough space, enough time to move, enough room to breathe.
And yet, he always read me perfectly.
Always knew where I'd go, where the ball would be, when I'd hesitate.
I didn't know if it was skill, intuition, or… something else.
By mid-game, the sweat had plastered my hair to my forehead, my muscles were burning, and my lungs were tight.
Yet, I couldn't stop.
Couldn't let go of this rhythm, this… connection.
He laughed when I finally scored a basket, just one, but enough to make him stop and smile genuinely.
"You're better than I thought," he said.
I rolled my eyes, pretending to be unimpressed, but the tiny smirk that threatened to break free betrayed me.
"You got lucky," I muttered.
"Sure," he said, grinning, tossing the ball back. "Lucky… or maybe we're finally syncing."
I froze slightly at that. Syncing.
That word lingered longer than I liked.
The sun climbed higher, casting shadows along the court.
Our breaths came heavier, our movements slower, but the energy between us was electric.
Each pass, each shot, each playful shove, it wasn't just a game anymore.
It was… a conversation.
A language we were creating without words.
And I realized that in this small, quiet town, away from the chaos I had left behind, I was starting to feel… understood.
Not safe.
Not comforted.
Not in love.
But seen.
And that was dangerous.