Another day. Another dragging, colorless blur of hours spent shuffling from one empty task to the next. I felt like a ghost, tethered to a life I didn't want, going through motions that meant nothing. Even breathing felt like a chore.
I stood there, head bowed, staring blankly at the ground as the clamor of the world hummed around me, distant and indifferent. Then, amidst the noise, came the sound of footsteps-familiar, distinct, and deliberate. They stopped in front of me, and I didn't need to look up to know who it was.
She called my name, soft yet commanding, slicing through the fog in my mind. My heart gave a traitorous flutter. With a sigh weighted by habit and curiosity, I finally lifted my head.
There she was, as she always seemed to be, wrapped in an aura of both grace and menace. The first thing I noticed was the smile-a sly curve of her lips that promised nothing good. But it was her eyes, crimson and relentless, that pinned me in place. They burned with a dark, knowing light, searing straight through me as if peeling back the layers of my soul to see what lay rotting beneath.
In that moment, it felt as if the air between us crackled, sharp and electric. A cold shiver crawled up my spine as I met her gaze, unable to look away. The question that clawed at my mind was the same as always: Who was she, really, and why did it feel like she already owned a piece of me?
I manage a quiet "hi" in response, the sound of it barely reaching past the space between us. She smiles, a subtle, knowing curve of her lips, before slipping into the seat beside me. The bench creaks under her weight, an oddly grounding sound in this surreal moment. Why is she here? Or maybe the better question is, why am I still here, hoping for this encounter?
The memory of our first meeting drifts up, sharp and clear despite the fog that usually dulls my days. It had been another tiring day, the kind that stretched endlessly-working, sleeping, eating, only to work again. I'd already felt like a husk, a walking shell of a man with nothing inside.
That evening, I'd found myself on this very bench, eyes blank and unfocused. Then she appeared, a figure carved out of shadows and dim light, stepping into my quiet despair. She walked toward me, her eyes-a deep, entrancing crimson-locked on mine. When she asked my name, my head lifted as if by command, and I was caught. Hypnotized by that gaze, my mouth betrayed me and spoke my name.
She smiled, and it was the kind of smile that reached far beyond politeness. It felt almost predatory. But why? What had I done to earn that smile?
She sat beside me then, just as she is now, her presence a blend of comfort and discomfort. She asked questions: why I was there, what I did, if this bench meant anything to me. I answered each one, the words leaving my lips without hesitation. I didn't know her, didn't owe her anything, yet somehow, responding felt inevitable.
Since that day, I've returned to this bench, drawn to it by an invisible tether. It's as if, without meaning to, I'm asking for this-these moments where she finds me, where crimson eyes and sly smiles remind me that I'm alive, or at least something close to it.
My mouth betrays me again, moving of its own accord. "Why do you come here again?" The words spill out, hollow, as if I care enough to know the answer.
She giggles-a sound that lingers like a whisper from a dark hallway, haunting and sweet. It's the first time I've heard it, and something about it sends a chill down my spine. But fear is absent; instead, curiosity coils within me, tighter and tighter.
With that same smile that always feels a step away from a secret, she tilts her head and asks me the same question. Silence stretches between us as we stare at each other, already knowing the unspoken truth. I come here every day after work for this: the strangeness, the familiarity, the fleeting moment that reminds me I'm still tethered to the world.
Minutes slip by, marked by the quiet rustle of leaves and the distant hum of the city. Eventually, I rise, ready to leave the bench and this moment behind. She bids me goodbye with a simple nod, her crimson eyes gleaming as they follow my retreat. And as I walk away from the park, back to the hollowed-out solitude of my apartment, only one thought echoes in my mind: Will I see her again tomorrow?
The next day drags on mercilessly, hours piling up as overtime suffocates me under its weight. By the time I clock out, night has already wrapped itself around the city. Yet, instead of heading home, my feet trace the familiar route, as if bound by an invisible thread leading back to that bench.
My expression is as blank as ever, but my mind is restless, a whirlwind of anticipation. As I approach, my heart sinks-a pulse of disappointment that leaves me cold. The bench is empty, shrouded in shadows. Emptiness swallows me whole, heavy and sudden.
I sink onto the bench, releasing a sigh that feels like it drags half my spirit out with it. My eyes fall to the cracked concrete beneath my feet, searching for answers that aren't there.
Just as I gather the resolve to leave, a sound cuts through the silence: those footsteps again, deliberate and echoing in the stillness. My body reacts before my mind catches up, eyes snapping up to meet hers. Crimson eyes glint under the dim light, and there it is-a smile, wider than usual, spreading across her face.
What are you smiling for? The question never leaves my lips, but it doesn't need to. In the silence, our gaze speaks louder than words. Her smile softens, shifting to something unreadable as she lowers herself beside me once more. The night breathes between us, heavy and electric.
"Overtime?" she asks, her voice almost playful. I nod, offering nothing but a single, weary "yes." She responds with a knowing nod, the motion almost imperceptible.
I turn my face slightly, catching her already watching me. The closeness of it makes my pulse stutter. She leans in, the space between us vanishing in an instant, and whispers in my ear, "Aren't you a wicked one?" The words cut sharper than they should, and I feel a pang deep in my chest. Why am I here?
She pulls back, her eyes still locked on mine as a smile tugs at her lips before she looks forward into the night. I draw a shaky breath and break the silence, my voice quieter than I intend. "What is your name?"
She tenses, just a flicker of a reaction that's almost missed, before she turns to face me with that familiar, enigmatic smirk. "My name is..." The sound leaves her lips, but it's like hearing through water-muffled, lost.
What? My vision blurs, and suddenly, the world around me feels weighted, sluggish. The darkness closes in, and before I can comprehend it, I'm falling-falling into silence, into nothingness.
When I open my eyes, I'm met by soft light filtering through the trees. The morning sun has risen, painting the park in hues of gold and shadow. She's gone, as if she was never here at all. Confusion knots in my mind. Did I fall asleep? Pass out? The chill of the bench bites through my clothes, a reminder that something happened, but the edges of memory feel jagged and incomplete.
The question lingers, whispering in the back of my mind as I stand. Who is she?
I didn't bother going to work that day. Instead, I chose to stay home, trying to convince myself that I needed rest. But idle hours felt suffocating, so I wandered the city, my steps drawn in circles until I ended up back at the park-our park. The one where she first found me. My eyes scanned the path, the benches, the shadows beneath the trees, hoping for even a glimpse of her.
But no matter how long I searched, she was nowhere to be found. Frustration knotted in my chest, and the thought crossed my mind to ask someone-anyone-if they'd seen a girl with eyes like crimson fire. But then it hit me: I had nothing. No proof she existed beyond the faint, unreal touch of memory. No photo, no name. A photo! The idea burned through my mind with a spark of desperation. If I could just capture her, even once, maybe I could finally find out who she was, prove she was real.
As the sun began to dip below the skyline, casting the park in long, stretching shadows, I returned to the bench. The air felt thick, charged with an energy I couldn't shake. My fingers itched for the moment when I'd see her and raise my phone, as if that could somehow pin down the surreal that surrounded her. My chest tightened. Was I really this desperate?
The self-recrimination came in waves, each thought sharper than the last. What am I doing? This is madness. You're becoming a stalker, a failure, a wretch. Just end it already. Dark thoughts seeped in, black and consuming, flooding my mind like a river breaking its banks.
Then, out of nowhere, a touch-cold and light as winter's breath-brushed against the top of my head. I startled, my heart lurching as I looked up. She was there, watching me in silence, but this time, there was no sly smile or knowing gleam in her eyes. Instead, her expression was unreadable, disinterested, as if she were staring at something broken.
The question rose in my throat, raw and bitter. Why aren't you smiling? Am I so boring to you now?
Her hand lingered for a moment before dropping to her side. The silence between us was deafening, filled with all the words I couldn't say and the ones she wouldn't.
In that moment, anger sparked deep in my chest-an emotion I hadn't felt in so long it almost frightened me. Why? Why aren't you smiling at me? The sight of her detached expression twisted something inside me, a raw and irrational need. Look at me. Smile.
But she only turned her head away, her lips parting as she mumbled something too soft to catch. The distance between us felt unbearable. My voice trembled, unspoken words clawing at my throat. What are you saying? Talk to me!
Almost without realizing it, I reached for my phone, fingers fumbling as I raised it to capture her image. The moment she noticed, her eyes shifted, locking onto mine with a smile that sent a chill skittering down my spine. It was haunting, unsettling-yet there was something captivating about it, something that made my pulse quicken. Those crimson eyes glowed in the dying light, the curve of her lips a twisted masterpiece.
"Why?" Her voice was low, almost taunting. "I thought you wanted to take a picture of me." The way she said it made my heart thud, each beat echoing with the implication. She didn't seem to care, didn't move to stop me. Good, I thought. I'll post it online, spread her image, find out who she is. But then, a darker realization crept in. Others will see her, know her...
No.
A surge of possessiveness flooded me, so intense it nearly took my breath away. No, no, no! No one else can see these eyes, this smile. She's mine. Mine alone. My hand lowered, slipping the phone back into my pocket. The weight of it felt heavier than before, as if the decision had carved a piece of me away.
She moved, crouching down beside me until her face was near, her breath grazing my ear as she whispered, "Good." The simple word sent a shiver through me, a thrill that made me feel unmoored, as though I could drown in that feeling forever.
I stood and walked away, the world around me a blur as pride swelled in my chest. Proud of what? I couldn't say. But it thrummed inside me, relentless and consuming