After that evening in the park, Zen could not shake the image of Peter's eyes when he had spoken of loss. It haunted her, pulling at her thoughts even during lectures and distracting her while she worked in the café. She began to notice the small signs of weariness on him more clearly now. The way his shoulders slumped after long hours, the faint exhaustion in his movements, the subtle tension that never seemed to leave his frame. It was as if his body carried the weight of a life that demanded too much and gave too little in return. For Zen, it was no longer enough to simply watch from a distance. She wanted to do something, to ease even a fraction of the burden she could sense pressing against him.
Her chance came one rainy afternoon when she spotted him carrying grocery bags through their neighborhood. The weight was obvious, the plastic handles digging into his hands, his steps slower than usual. Without thinking, Zen ran up to him, her umbrella tilted above her head. "Here, let me help," she said, reaching for one of the bags. Peter stopped, his expression unreadable, his voice cool. "I can manage." But Zen refused to let go, her grip stubborn as she matched his stride. "Maybe you can, but that does not mean you should. Let me carry one, at least." Her words were light, but there was a firmness behind them that dared him to argue. For a moment, she thought he might push her away again, but in the end, he let her hold a bag, his silence an unspoken surrender.
They walked side by side through the rain, the sound of droplets pattering against Zen's umbrella filling the space between them. For once, the silence did not feel as heavy as before. She glanced at him from time to time, studying the sharp lines of his profile, the quiet strength that seemed to define him even in the simplest of moments. "You know," she said softly, "letting someone help does not mean you are weak. It just means you do not have to carry everything alone." Peter did not respond immediately, but his hand tightened briefly around the remaining bag as if her words struck something deeper than he wanted to admit. His gaze remained fixed ahead, his jaw tense, and Zen understood that he was fighting the instinct to retreat back into himself.
By the time they reached his street, the rain had lightened to a drizzle. Peter took the bag from her hands, his eyes meeting hers for a fleeting second before he muttered, "You should not involve yourself in things that are not your concern." The words were meant to push her away, but Zen only smiled, unfazed. "Maybe. But I am already involved." With that, she turned and walked toward her own street, leaving him standing there with the groceries and a silence he could not easily shake. For Peter, her insistence was both a burden and a strange comfort, and for Zen, it was the first small victory in her quiet battle to break through the walls he had built.