The day dragged like wet cloth.
He woke to the sound of his alarm vibrating angrily against the nightstand, its shrill beeping burrowing into his skull. The world outside his curtains was bright, blinding, merciless. He turned it off, stared at the ceiling for a long while, then forced himself upright.
The hours that followed passed in pieces: lukewarm coffee, classmates' chatter that slipped past his ears, the hum of fluorescent lights that seemed too loud in hallways too narrow. He answered when spoken to, nodded when expected, but his mind was elsewhere—always elsewhere.
By mid-afternoon, he found himself watching the clock. Counting. Not the hours until class ended, not the minutes until dinner, but the slow turning of the sky toward dusk.
He thought of her. The way her hair seemed to drink moonlight, the tremor in her voice when she said nights don't last forever. He thought of how her smile had shifted, softer, when he'd told her he would always come back.
By the time the sun dipped low and the shadows lengthened, his pulse had already quickened.
And so, when the moon rose, he was there again.
She was waiting. Of course she was.
Tonight, she stood beneath the oak tree instead of sitting, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. Her face lit when she saw him, and though the change was slight—no more than the curve of her lips, the faint widening of her eyes—he felt it like a rush of warmth through the cold air.
"You really do keep your promises," she said.
He laughed under his breath. "Did you think I wouldn't?"
Her gaze drifted away, her smile thinning at the edges. "People don't always stay."
Something in her tone was too sharp, too old, like words carried from another time. He wanted to ask what she meant, but she was already lowering herself onto the bench, smoothing her dress as though to erase the slip.
He sat beside her, close enough to feel the faint chill that clung to her skin.
They spoke of small things first. The way the wind rattled the oak's branches. The faint sound of the river in the distance. How the stars tonight looked sharper, clearer, as though the sky itself had polished them.
But the small talk never stayed small for long. Not with her.
"Do you ever feel," she asked suddenly, "like the world is moving without you? Like you're standing still while everything else rushes past?"
He blinked, caught off guard. "All the time."
Her eyes turned to him, wide, searching, as though she hadn't expected him to understand.
He shrugged, forcing a smile. "Every day feels the same, but when I look back, it's like whole months have slipped away. It's… strange. Like I don't know where I went."
Her lips parted slightly, as if to answer, but no sound came. Instead, she pressed her hands tighter together, as though holding herself still.
"What about you?" he asked gently.
Her gaze returned to the moon. "For me… it's the opposite. I feel everything move, but I stay."
He didn't understand. Not fully. But the weight in her voice, the quiet ache of it, made him want to.
They fell silent again, but it wasn't the silence of strangers. The air was too alive, the space between them too fragile, every unspoken word suspended like dew on a spider's web.
When the wind stirred, carrying the scent of damp grass and the faintest hint of blossoms, he almost reached for her hand. His fingers twitched against the bench, then stilled.
But she noticed. Her gaze flicked to his hand, lingered for the briefest heartbeat, then rose back to the moon with a smile that was too small, too sad, too knowing.
And though neither of them moved, though their hands remained apart, something invisible had closed the distance between them.
The night stretched on, unhurried.
And for the first time in a long time, he wished dawn would never come.