Another day, another silent ritual. I found myself back on that same old bench, fingers mindlessly scrolling through my phone while I waited. A message popped up from a friend—he wanted to meet up over the weekend and, as usual, wouldn't take no for an answer. His persistence brought a faint smile to my face, a brief reminder of a life I barely touched anymore.
Just as I started to type a response, a cold droplet splattered against the screen. I looked up to see the sky had opened up, rain beginning to fall in a gentle patter. It had been years since I'd felt rain like this, soaking me to the bone. Oddly enough, it felt refreshing, almost cleansing. Maybe today she won't come, I thought as I stood, ready to leave.
But then, through the curtain of rain, I saw it: the glow of her eyes, burning crimson even in the storm's haze. A shiver ran down my spine. There she was, standing still under a black umbrella, her smile as crooked and knowing as ever.
Without a word, she passed me, her steps deliberate, heels echoing against the wet pavement. She sat down on the bench I'd just vacated, tilting her head slightly as she looked up at me, as if daring me to make my next move.
I hesitated only for a moment before walking back, my body soaked and cold but unable to resist the pull. I sat beside her without a word, feeling the sharp edge of her presence beside me. The rain drummed on the umbrella above, forming a barrier between us and the rest of the world. I didn't need to look at her to know she was smiling. That silent, invisible thread between us said everything.
We talked about my day, about nothing and everything, filling the storm's silence with our shared words. Neither of us mentioned why I kept coming back, why she waited, or what it meant.
Eventually, I stood and walked away, rain streaming down my face, indistinguishable from the shower that followed when I reached home. The water was cold, but it felt almost grounding, a tether to a reality that was slipping away. I stared at the tiles under me, droplets falling like the chaotic thrum of my thoughts. What am I doing? What's left of me now?
The weekend arrived, and with it came the knock I had been expecting. My friend stood at the door, eyes widening slightly as he took in my disheveled appearance. "You look like someone who's been cursed or haunted," he said, half-joking, but the concern in his voice didn't go unnoticed. I brushed it off with a shrug. Nothing's really changed since the last time, I told him.
The day unfolded as planned. We played games, ordered food, strolled aimlessly around the block, and spent the evening sprawled out in my living room watching new movies. The glow of the TV cast dancing lights across the room as we lay there, a comfortable silence settling between us. It was then, in that moment of quiet, that I spoke up.
"I'm in love," I said, staring at the ceiling as if the confession might drift up and away. He laughed, a genuine sound that echoed through the room.
"Wow, it's been ages since you talked about a girl." His laughter faded as I began to describe her, each detail making his smile waver. He sat up, crossing his arms. "You're serious? You don't even know her name?"
"It's one-sided," I admitted. He laughed again, but the sound was more cautious now, tinged with disbelief. "She let me take her picture once," I added, "but I didn't do it."
"Why not?" His brows knitted in confusion.
"I don't want anyone else to know she exists," I said, voice low and possessive. He blinked, the realization that I wasn't joking sinking in, the room growing heavy with the unspoken. The silence between us stretched until he sighed, ruffling his hair.
"Look, man, you need to snap out of this. Get out more, talk to people, visit your parents, anything." He tried to smile as he stood, patting my shoulder before heading to the door. "Think about it, yeah?" He waved goodbye, his expression tinged with worry.
The door clicked shut, and the apartment sank into a deep, unsettling quiet. A familiar chill traced its way up my spine. I turned, the air almost crackling as my gaze met a fleeting glimpse of crimson eyes and that knowing, crooked smile. A shiver ran through me. Am I finally losing it?
I closed my bedroom door, bolted it for good measure, and collapsed into bed, determined to sleep off the feeling gnawing at my sanity. But morning brought a different kind of surprise: a black rose resting in front of my door, its petals dark as midnight, dew catching the morning light like tiny crystals. I picked it up, fingers brushing the velvety petals, and placed it carefully in a pot on my balcony. It sat there, silent and watchful, as if it knew more than it let on.
Monday arrives, and I find myself on the familiar bench again, as if drawn there by an invisible tether. It isn't long before she appears, her presence as commanding as ever. Without a word, she sits beside me, and I turn to her, mustering a smile. "Thanks for the black rose," I say, my voice steady despite the questions brewing in my mind. She giggles lightly, not confirming or denying her involvement, as if the mystery was her response.
We slip into our usual conversation, a strange comfort found in the casual exchange of words. But mid-sentence, the sky darkens, and the rain begins to fall. I pull out the umbrella I had brought, prepared this time. But what I see next freezes me in place: she sits motionless, eyes closed and smiling, letting the rain drench her.
Without thinking, my hand moves to shield her with the umbrella, breaking through that silent, surreal moment. She opens her eyes and smiles at me, a smile that stirs something between bliss and wild, untamed instinct in my chest. It feels powerful yet unnerving, an unsettling rush that leaves me breathless.
We continue talking, as if nothing had happened, and when it's time to leave, I hand her the umbrella and walk home, letting the rain wash over me again. I'm losing it, I know, but something in me relishes this descent. The next morning, I find my umbrella placed neatly outside my apartment. I take it to work, the questions gnawing at me: How did she know where I live? Has she been watching me?
The possibilities race through my mind, each more disturbing than the last. I decide I need to confront her. I need answers. Arriving at the bench, I brace myself for her presence, that familiar, icy aura that seems to tighten around my throat.
She arrives, sitting beside me like always. I thank her for returning the umbrella, and she simply nods. But just as I open my mouth to ask how she knew my address, I hear my name called from behind. My heart sinks.
It's my junior from work, cheerful as ever. She approaches with a smile, inviting me out for a drink. I stand to meet her, but before I can respond, I feel a cold, suffocating presence at my back. I don't dare turn around. My skin prickles as I hear her voice, a whisper too close to my ear. "Sorry, I'm borrowing him right now." She's embracing me from behind, her arms possessive.
I glance at my junior. Her eyes widen, and I see fear flash across her face. It's the same look I feel in my own eyes—paralyzed by something unseen yet so real. She hesitates, then reaches for my hand, but the grip around me tightens, a silent warning. The tension is suffocating.
"I'm sorry," my junior mumbles, bowing quickly before retreating, almost running.
The oppressive chill vanishes as suddenly as it came, replaced by her usual, uncanny presence. She sits back on the bench as if nothing happened, her eyes on me, waiting.
"What were you going to ask?" she prompts, a faint smile playing on her lips.
But the question I had burned to ask has dissolved. There are things I'm better off not knowing.
After talking with her, I walk home, feeling a heaviness deeper than usual. The events from earlier cling to me, an ominous shadow I know will haunt me forever. Was it jealousy? Or something far more sinister? I don't want to find out. It's better if I never experience that again.
The next day at work, my junior approaches me, apologizing for what happened. I tell her it's fine, trying to sound reassuring. She looks hesitant, then says, "I thought that girl was your girlfriend." The words strike me, and I open my mouth to deny it but stop. I swallow hard, letting the silence be my answer.
On the way home, despite everything, my feet take me to the park bench again. A commotion catches my attention—a scream. I see a young girl on the ground, clearly having collided with a couple. The boyfriend, visibly annoyed, starts yelling at her, even kicking her.
Before I know it, I'm running toward them. Just as he raises a fist, I step in and block him. His eyes narrow as he considers retaliating, but the growing crowd makes him think twice. Muttering under his breath, he storms off with his girlfriend trailing behind.
I turn to the young girl, who gives me a brave smile. "I'm okay," she says as I help gather her scattered belongings. Before leaving, she presses a small lion pin into my hand, urging me to put it on my tie. She waves goodbye with a smile that's warm, kind—a stark contrast to the cold presence I'm used to.
As I head to the bench, a flicker of fear crosses my mind. Will she see the pin? Will she react like last time? But despite that fear, I can't bring myself to remove it. I sit, waiting. When her familiar footsteps draw near, I brace myself.
Her eyes lock on the lion pin, but instead of the cold anger I expect, a smile spreads across her face. "It's cute," she says, her voice light. Reaching into her pocket, she takes out a small crow-shaped hairpin and gently clips it to my bangs. "Your hair hides your beautiful eyes," she murmurs, her touch lingering just a moment longer.
She sits beside me, a newfound contentment in her presence. It feels... different. Unexpected.
What just happened?