After that little incident at the hot dog stand, we kept walking through the empty park. The cold night air was refreshing, and the sound of our footsteps on the leaf-covered ground broke the silence that surrounded us. As we walked, so did our conversation. Slowly but surely, I began to uncover fragments of her true personality, small pieces of her story that allowed me to assemble the puzzle of who she really was.
She spoke to me about her past, about how, unlike me, she hadn't been a popular person in high school. There was something melancholy in her voice as she mentioned it, an echo of old wounds that hadn't fully healed.
"I was never one of those girls that everyone knows or admires," she said, looking ahead as if searching for the words in the darkness of the path. "Being popular is a privilege not everyone has. I was pretty much an outsider."
She paused, as though waiting for my reaction. I nodded slightly, encouraging her to continue.
"It's not that I didn't have friends," she added quickly. "I had some, just a few, but good ones. They helped me not feel alone. But the rest of my classmates... it was like I didn't exist to them. They didn't bother to talk to me or even notice I was there."
Her tone was calm, but her words were steeped in a sadness she was trying to hide. Maybe it wasn't something that haunted her now, but traces of that experience still lingered in her voice, in the way she avoided looking directly at me as she spoke.
Of course, I couldn't understand that feeling. I hadn't been in her position or experienced what she was describing. To me, the concept of being ignored didn't carry that emotional weight. But I knew I had to say something.
"I was a bit of an outsider too, at times," I lied, with a neutral tone that sought to sound empathetic without delving too deep.
Anyone else might have commented on how hard that must have been for her or tried to share a similar experience. But I couldn't do that because I didn't understand that kind of pain. To me, a lack of attention wasn't a problem—it was an advantage. The less attention I received, the easier it was for me to move around, the simpler it was to accomplish what I set out to do without interference. But, of course, I couldn't tell her that.
"Really?" she asked, looking at me for the first time since she'd started talking about her past. Her eyes held a mix of curiosity and a hint of relief.
"Yes, believe it or not," I replied, letting a small smile cross my lips. "I think we've all had moments when we've felt out of place."
She nodded, accepting my answer, and silence settled between us for a moment. It wasn't uncomfortable, but rather reflective.
The conversation continued, but she was the one steering it. I only chimed in occasionally with casual questions, just enough to keep her talking. That was the best form of communication: letting the other person talk while I listened, collecting every detail of what they said.
As she spoke, I learned more about her, small pieces that completed the puzzle of her life. She told me she loved playing the piano, that when she sat in front of the keys, she could lose herself in the music for hours. Her face lit up as she talked about it, as if that memory momentarily pushed away any sorrow she might carry.
"It's like everything else disappears," she said, smiling with a certain shyness. "When I play the piano, it's like nothing else matters."
I returned her smile, pretending to be captivated by her passion. It was fascinating how easily someone could let their guard down when you showed genuine interest—even if it was fake.
She also mentioned she wasn't much of a sports fan.
"I tried track and field once, but it wasn't for me," she admitted with a laugh. "I prefer quieter activities, like reading or listening to music."
Every word she spoke was a window into her world, a new piece of the puzzle. I could see how her gestures became more relaxed, how her trust in me grew with every answer. She didn't realize that with every detail she shared, she gave me more power over her.
As we walked, the park remained empty, the darkness wrapping around us like a protective cloak. Her voice resonated softly in the cold air, and I kept listening, observing, deciphering who she really was.
What intrigued me most wasn't what she said, but what she didn't say. The pauses between her words, the moments when she seemed to hesitate, unsure whether to share something or not. Those silences were even more revealing than her confessions.
She kept talking, unaware that, for me, every word was another step toward the climax of our night.
Everything was going well; the night was progressing smoothly, and the conversation flowed effortlessly. It seemed like I had struck the perfect balance between showing interest and letting her talk, gathering every detail of her life. But then, suddenly, she decided to take the conversation in an entirely unexpected direction.
She began to tell me about a boy she had known in high school. According to her, he was handsome, someone who stood out without trying. She had met him during those confusing teenage years, and at first, neither of them spoke to each other.
"He was one of the people who ignored me," she confessed, her tone a strange mix of sadness and longing. "But… I was completely in love with him."
I nodded slightly, though something didn't sit right with me. Seriously? Doesn't she know that talking about exes on a first date is a no-go? It's incredibly rude. I mean, you've got your potential future partner right in front of you, and you decide to open old wounds by bringing up someone from your past? It was irritating, but I kept my thoughts to myself, letting my expression remain neutral, even understanding.
She continued, completely absorbed in her story, oblivious to my thoughts.
"At first… he didn't even notice I existed. But I always found ways to try and get closer. I'd try to talk to him, smile at him, but he never paid attention. It was like I was invisible to him."
I frowned slightly, not because her story moved me, but because I couldn't help but reflect on the irony of it all. Invisible… That word seemed to define a significant part of her, at least based on what I already knew.
"My friends kept telling me I had to go for it, that I couldn't give up. And in the end, one day, I decided to speak to him directly," she said, a small, somewhat trembling smile appearing on her lips. "It was… hard. We didn't talk much at first, but over time, we started to trust each other more."
As I listened, I couldn't help but think about how absurd this all was. What's the point of telling me this? Is she trying to warn me about something? To make herself seem vulnerable? The only thing I could deduce was that this boy had left a deep mark on her, perhaps even traumatized her. I could already guess how this story would end: with infidelity. First loves are always the worst—full of idealism and inevitable disappointment.
But then, the story took a turn I didn't expect.
"Over time, we became a couple. We were inseparable. Everyone said we were the perfect pair."
My thoughts froze for a moment. Now I was intrigued, though not in the way she might think.
"We even…" she hesitated, as if unsure whether to continue, "after graduating high school, we bought a house together."
That genuinely caught me off guard. A house? So young? From her appearance, she couldn't have been more than 23 or 24. It wasn't common for someone her age to talk about sharing a house with a past partner.
But then, her tone shifted. Her voice became lower, tenser, and her gaze, which until that moment had been fixed on the path ahead, dropped to the ground.
"At first, everything was perfect… but then… something changed."
I waited, almost savoring what was coming next. It was obvious this story wouldn't have a happy ending.
"He started growing distant. He'd go out at night and wouldn't come back until late."
There it was. Exactly. Infidelity. I knew this story would end that way.
"I… I didn't understand what was happening," she continued, her voice trembling slightly. "I started feeling left out, like I didn't exist to him anymore. It was like being back in high school, ignored all over again."
I nodded, masking my real disinterest with a façade of empathy. I was certain he had cheated on her. It was such a predictable script I could have finished the story for her. But what she said next completely threw me off.
"In the end… I started going out more, frequenting bars…" She paused for a long moment, as if the words were too heavy. "And I cheated on him."
Cheated? Her? I hadn't expected that. I had assumed the boy had betrayed her, but I never thought she would do the same. I looked at her carefully, trying to decipher her emotions. There was something deeply contradictory in her confession, a mix of guilt and justification that made her even more intriguing.
Before I could respond or even think of what to say, she continued.
"I don't know why I did it. Maybe… because I wanted to feel seen, to feel desired. But… every time I did it, I felt emptier."
Her voice broke at that moment, and a tear rolled down her cheek. She stopped dead in her tracks, unable to keep talking.
I stared at her, assessing the situation. At that moment, I had to make a decision: press her to finish her story or console her. I chose the latter.
"You don't have to keep going," I said in a calm, reassuring tone. "You don't have to talk about something that hurts you."
She looked at me, her eyes filled with tears, and for an instant, I saw conflict in her expression. Finally, she nodded and let out a shaky sigh.
"You're right… It's not something I want to remember right now."
I wrapped my arms around her in a gesture of comfort, feeling her body tremble slightly against mine.
"Everything's fine now," I murmured, keeping my voice soft and steady, as if I truly believed those words.
As she calmed down, my mind processed what I had just heard. Now that I knew this, I wasn't so sure she was the right person for what I had planned. Her emotions, her traumas, her story… all of it complicated things in ways I hadn't anticipated.
Maybe she's not the one after all.