The rain-soaked afternoon lingered in Peter's mind longer than he wanted to admit. He told himself it was nothing, that Zen's persistence was simply the stubbornness of a girl who did not know when to give up. Yet when he thought of her walking beside him, holding the weight he usually carried alone, something inside him softened in ways he had not felt in years. He was not used to anyone staying near, much less insisting on helping when he had made it clear he preferred solitude. The memory unsettled him, but it also lingered like a quiet warmth in his chest, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not quite push it away.
Zen noticed the shift, small as it was. The next time he came to the café, his words were still brief, but his voice had lost some of its sharp edge. When she handed him his coffee, their fingers brushed and he did not immediately pull back as he once would have. He even allowed her to linger at his table, listening quietly as she filled the silence with small stories about her classes, her friends, or the quirks of customers she served. He did not laugh, but there were moments when the corner of his mouth almost lifted, and for Zen that was more than enough. She could feel the barriers still firmly in place, but she also sensed the faintest crack in them, and it gave her hope.
Their neighborhood walks became easier too. Instead of silence pressed tight between them, there were moments when Peter would offer a thought or two about the weather, about a book he was reading, or even about the little park where they often crossed paths. His words were never many, but Zen cherished each one as if it were proof that he was beginning to trust her presence. She learned not to push too hard, letting him speak when he chose, content simply to be near him. There was still a distance he held onto, a wariness that never fully disappeared, but he no longer turned her away as coldly as before. And though he might never say it aloud, Zen could feel it—he had begun to let her into the edges of his guarded world.
For Peter, the change was unsettling. He had promised himself never to let anyone get close again, never to risk the pain of losing what he cared for. Yet with Zen, the rules he had made for himself began to falter. Her persistence had worn down his silence, not with force but with a kind of gentleness he did not know how to resist. And though part of him still wanted to push her away, another part found a strange comfort in her presence, a reminder that perhaps not all connections ended in loss. It was only a small shift, barely noticeable to anyone else, but to Zen it was a beginning, and to Peter it was the first dangerous step toward feeling something he had long tried to bury.