The apartment was warm a different kind of warmth than the cool, uncertain night outside. As Sharon padded inside, shoes kicking into the corner, she could hear the soft sizzle and spice of her mother cooking in the kitchen. Her parents' voices overlapped in the background: the steady, practical notes of a household caught between tiredness and love.
Sharon was used to this coming home to a quiet that was not quite loneliness, but something she'd learned to fill herself over the years. Only child, both parents working; the television was sometimes her companion, just background noise. She'd grown independent not by choice but by necessity; holidays spent with books or swirling daydreams rather than picnics and outings.
But today, the aroma of her mother's cooking something rich and familiar seemed to sweep away the last traces of her walk home. At the table, real food and familiar faces made the encounter with the strange boy blur, then fade.
She didn't mention him, and her parents didn't ask. Maybe if she'd said something, her mother would have worried, or her father would have frowned and told her not to trust strangers. Sharon wasn't even sure she could've explained it properly, how it felt neither good nor bad, just strange and new, like stepping over the edge of a shadow and not knowing how far it would stretch.
Later, belly full and sleep tugging gently at her eyes, Sharon lay in her small bed, her favorite snack wrappers crinkled beside her on the sheets. She tried to read, tried to sink into a story, but her mind replayed the evening. She scolded herself for talking so freely to someone she didn't know. What if he hadn't been friendly? What if he'd followed her? She'd told him her name, her building, everything. What was she thinking?
Tomorrow, if she saw him again, she promised herself she would keep her distance. Give only her name to those who deserve it, not strangers, even ones with steady eyes and gentle hands. She thought about how unfair it was: he knew her name, but she didn't know anything about him, not even a name.
Sleep crept in, slow and restless. Sharon clutched her pillow tighter, still uneasy but also, secretly, just a little curious about what the next day might bring.
Outside, Sid lay back on his bed, hands behind his head, gazing up at the slow crawl of a ceiling fan. He felt a strange afterglow from that odd encounter, a quiet sense of responsibility mixed with self-doubt. Had he been too forward? Too playful? He liked to imagine he came off as the cool older kid, but the truth was, the moment he'd seen Sharon's confusion, the bravado had fizzled. He wondered if she thought he was a jerk or, worse, a weirdo.
He replayed the scene: her hesitance, her careful answers. Maybe he'd scared her. He didn't want that, not really. For the first time in a while, he caught himself wanting to make a better impression. He made a silent note: if he saw her again, he'd be a little less bold, a little more patient. Maybe tell her his name, too. Maybe ask a real question, not just tease.
Just before sleep, Sid wondered why this, of all ordinary evenings, had lodged itself in his mind. He couldn't say, but he thought, if he was honest, that he hoped he'd see her again.