>>seven

Darren was proposing some sort of truce— even though there was never really any source of conflict to begin with.

Evelyn was minding her own business, sitting at her favourite spot, when he approached her, a single paper clutched resolutely in his hand.

"There's no denying that we both love this place. It's only fair that we share it. And look, if you're so adamant on having your space then this is your side," he said, motioning in her direction, before turning towards the opposite half. "And this is my side."

She didn't entirely agree with his notion, considering she had been here first. In her mind, that gave her ownership rights. But nonetheless, she was an aspiring lawyer, and one thing that was certain was that she couldn't claim rights over a public space, much to her dismay.

But, so long as he kept to his side and left her to her own devices, it couldn't be that bad, could it?

"Here," he said, handing her the mystery paper.

"What's this?"

He gave her a soft smile, and shrugged sheepishly. "Peace offering."

Hesitantly, she took it, noticing it was the poem she'd written earlier. But below it, something had been added.

As she took in the words before her, something tightened in her chest. Her lips begged to quirk upwards, but she leaned her head down in an attempt to conceal it.

Who is this guy?

Where did he come from?

"Okay, fine," she conceded. "But just... do your own thing, okay?"

"Yes boss," he said, heading over to the bench on the other side.

Tucking the poem into her pocket, she turned back and resumed looking down at the water below. She tried to tune out her mind, to let the soft lapping of the water help her drift, but she couldn't help it. Her eyes kept glancing over at the self-proclaimed poetry boy with not much effort on her part.

He was so engrossed in what he was doing, never coming up once for air as if he paused for even a second, he would lose his momentum.

How did he do that?

What drove him to write with such passion?

Evelyn had only ever known one story in her life— the story of her existence. But for once, she wanted to know more. She wanted to know his.

"Is everything okay?" He said without looking up.

She averted her gaze abruptly. "What?"

"You keep looking over in my direction."

"I just... I was just— "

"You were just what?"

"Nothing," she shook her head, letting the soft waves of her hair cover her face. "Sorry."

The only problem was that she was here, and he was way over there, and she didn't have the courage to cross that boundary into the deep, vast unknown.

• • •

Late in the night, that same day, she scoured her draws to find an empty notebook. On the front in big, bold letters she wrote "STUDY NOTES". Flipping to the first page, she stuck down the poem that she'd kept in her jacket pocket, careful to smooth out all the wrinkles.

Then, she turned to the next page and began to write.