The city never slept. Cars rolled past in endless streams, horns echoed off glass towers, and the late-summer heat clung to the skin like a damp sheet. But none of that mattered to Peter.
He sat alone on the cracked wooden bench at the bus stop, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the road ahead as though waiting for something—or someone—that would never come.
The crowd shifted around him. People hurried past with shopping bags, parents tugged their children along, couples leaned into each other, laughing softly. Every so often, Peter's gaze flicked upward when footsteps approached. But when a stranger's face appeared instead of the one he longed for, his shoulders sagged, and he returned to staring at the pavement.
It had been like this for years. Nobody in the neighborhood understood why the quiet, serious young man wasted his Sundays waiting here for hours. Nobody dared ask either—except for one person.
"Peter."
A soft voice pulled him from his thoughts. He blinked and turned. Standing there was a girl with long black hair pulled into a messy braid and a pair of glasses slipping down her nose.
Rika.
She carried a paper bag against her chest, the faint smell of fried dumplings seeping from it. Her cheeks were flushed, partly from the summer heat, partly from annoyance.
"You're here again," she said.
Peter's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You caught me."
"I didn't 'catch' you," she muttered, setting the bag down beside him. "Anyone with eyes could see. You're always here. Every Sunday. Sitting like a lost puppy."
Her words were sharp, but her hands trembled slightly as she unwrapped the bag and pushed it toward him. "Eat before it gets cold."
Peter hesitated. He wanted to refuse, but the steam rising from the dumplings stirred the emptiness in his stomach. He picked one up, careful not to let his fingers brush hers.
"Thanks," he murmured.
Rika sat down beside him, brushing her skirt to keep it from touching the dusty bench. Her eyes, round and curious, stayed fixed on him. She wanted to ask again, he knew. She always wanted to.
Finally, she said it. "Who are you waiting for?"
Peter froze mid-bite. The dumpling burned his tongue, but he didn't move. He chewed slowly, swallowing with effort. Then he lowered his gaze, lashes casting shadows over his cheeks.
"Rika," he said quietly, "you ask this every time."
"And you avoid it every time," she shot back. "Don't you trust me?"
Her voice cracked on the last word, betraying the calm mask she tried so hard to keep.
Peter clenched his fist in his lap. The truth pressed against his throat, aching to be spoken, but he forced it down. Some wounds, once opened, never healed.
"It's not that," he said. His voice was rough, almost a whisper. "I just… can't."
The hurt on her face was immediate, like a child reaching for candy only to have it snatched away. She looked down, biting her lip.
The silence between them thickened, heavy with words unsaid. The traffic roared, people laughed in the distance, but on that bench it was suffocatingly quiet.
Rika tried to smile. "Fine. Don't tell me. But at least eat more than one dumpling. You look like you'll blow away if the wind picks up."
Peter huffed out a sound that might have been a laugh. He reached for another dumpling, their fingers brushing this time. Rika's pulse quickened, her face warming, but she didn't pull back.
For a fleeting second, Peter's deep brown eyes lifted to hers. Something unreadable flickered there—loneliness, sorrow, longing—but before she could grasp it, he looked away again.
The sun dipped lower, painting the city in streaks of gold and crimson. After a while, Peter stood.
"I should go," he said, voice flat.
Rika rose too, brushing off her skirt. "Back home?"
He nodded.
They walked side by side down the narrow street lined with small shops. Evening chatter drifted from the noodle stalls, the clatter of chopsticks against bowls mingling with the smell of soy sauce and garlic.
Peter stopped in front of a small, weathered house. The paint was peeling, the roof sagged slightly, but it was tidy, carefully kept.
As he reached for the doorknob, Rika blurted, "Peter—wait."
He turned.
Her hands twisted together, nails digging into her palms. "Why do you do this? Sitting at that bus stop all day… it's like you're waiting for a ghost. You never smile, you barely eat, and you keep pushing people away. What are you looking for? Or… who?"
Her voice trembled, the words tumbling out faster than she meant them to.
Peter's throat tightened. He wanted to tell her. To spill the memory that haunted him: a small boy left alone at that bus stop, The hope that turned to ashes.
But when he opened his mouth, all that came out was: "Don't ask me again, Rika. Please."
Her chest ached. She wanted to scream, to demand answers, to shake him until he let go of the secrets chained inside him. But his eyes—dark, tired, unbearably sad—stopped her.
"Fine," she whispered, her voice thick. She reached into the paper bag and held out the last dumpling. "Then at least eat dinner."
Their fingers touched again as he took it. Longer this time. Neither pulled away immediately.
"Thank you," he said softly.
And then, like always, he disappeared behind his door, leaving her staring at the peeling paint, her heart heavy with unspoken words.
Inside, Peter leaned against the closed door, the dumpling still in his hand. His chest rose and fell rapidly, as though he'd been running.
Rika's voice echoed in his head. Don't you trust me?
He squeezed his eyes shut. If only it were that simple.
Upstairs, the tiny room smelled faintly of dust and old books. He set the dumpling on his desk, untouched, and sank onto the bed. The silence wrapped around him like chains, suffocating.
His gaze drifted to the small drawer beside the bed. Slowly, he pulled it open. Inside lay a single photograph, edges yellowed with time.
A woman with soft eyes, her arm wrapped around a little boy. Both of them smiling.
Peter's throat tightened as he brushed his fingers over the boy's face.
"Why didn't you come back?" he whispered into the darkness.
But only silence answered.
Across the street, Rika stood at her own window, the glow of her desk lamp painting her in warm light. She bit her lip, watching the faint shadow of Peter move past his curtain.
She remembered him as a boy—thin, bruised, wandering the streets with eyes too old for his age. She remembered giving him half her lunch in elementary school, the way he devoured it without a word. She remembered standing in front of bullies for him, even when it meant she got pushed down too.
Sixteen years, and he still carried the same loneliness.
Her fists clenched. "I won't let you keep suffering alone, Peter," she whispered into the night.
The city outside continued to hum with life, unaware of the quiet war being waged in the heart of a girl determined to reach the boy who kept waiting for someone who would never return.
And somewhere deep inside Peter's chest, beneath the scars and silence, a part of him had already started to hear her.