Sunday mornings always felt like they moved slower than they had to.
Not because time itself changed, but because the world seemed less interested in rushing. The air felt thicker. Softer. Like it wanted you to stay where you were just a little longer.
Light spilled through my window, brushing the sketches taped to the wall—trees, faces, half-finished ideas, small fragments of life I didn't want to forget. The curtains shifted with the breeze, and dust floated lazily, catching the sun like it had nowhere else to be.
My alarm had stayed quiet.
I was still wrapped in my blanket when Mom knocked softly and slipped a mug of steaming milk onto my desk.
"Ron? Wake up. It's already eight," she said. "You said you wanted to catch the morning light."
I buried my face in the pillow. "It's Sunday… even my dreams are taking a break."
She smiled, like she knew she'd won. "Then maybe they can help you clean your room."
I rubbed my eyes and sat up. "Touché."
She handed me the warm mug. The scent of milk and cinnamon felt like home—familiar, grounding, unchanged in a world that never stopped shifting.
"You studying today? Exams are near."
"Park day," I said. "New sketchbook. And that art competition—you remember? One lakh prize."
Her sigh was soft, but tired. "I was hoping you'd study."
"I feel like…" I paused, staring at the sunlight crawling slowly across the wall. "Something's going to hit different today."
She didn't laugh. Didn't dismiss it. She only paused, then said quietly, "Take your jacket. It's breezy. And don't draw strangers without asking."
"No promises," I said, grinning.
The park was louder than usual.
It always surprised me how mornings could be both peaceful and chaotic at the same time. Joggers passed with rhythmic breaths. Dogs tugged at leashes. Children's laughter bounced off trees. Somewhere, a vendor shouted about tea.
Every bench was taken—families, joggers, dogs barking, kids screaming—except one.
She sat there, reading, earbuds tucked in. One empty space beside her.
I slowed without realizing it. My feet stopped, even though my mind hadn't decided anything yet.
I don't know why.
"It's free," she said, glancing up.
"Oh—uh, thanks."
I sat down. The wood felt warm from the sun. I opened my sketchbook, pencil resting lightly between my fingers. She peeked curiously, not trying to hide it.
"You draw?" she asked, pulling one earbud out.
"Yeah. Mostly… whatever's around me. People, trees, weird benches."
She laughed softly. "You calling this bench weird?"
"Kind of peaceful," I said. "Like it's waiting for someone."
"Maybe it was waiting for you." she replied
That line lingered longer than it should have. Like the wind had decided to hold onto it.
She leaned closer. "Can I see?"
I handed her the sketchbook. "Don't roast it."
She went quiet.
The silence wasn't awkward. It was heavy in a gentle way.
"…That's me?"
"Yeah. Hope it's not creepy."
"No," she said softly. "It's… amazing. You made me look calm."
"You looked calm when I sat down."
"That's because I hadn't noticed you yet."
We laughed—quiet, careful not to disturb the world. Like we'd both sensed something fragile forming between us.
Days didn't pass loudly. They slipped.
They blurred together in small repetitions: the same path, the same bench, the same sunlight falling through the same branches at slightly different angles. The bench became a habit. A pause carved into the week.
Same time. Same place.
The park's noise faded into something familiar—never quiet, but never distracting either. It became background music to something that felt oddly important.
Pages filled quickly. I stopped labeling sketches with dates. Time didn't need names anymore.
I drew her laughing. I drew her eyes half-closed when she listened to music. I drew the way her foot tapped against the ground when she was thinking, like she was counting something invisible.
She shared candy bars like it was a rule—breaking them clean in half, handing me one without asking. One earbud each. Sometimes music played. Sometimes it didn't. Silence settled between us like it belonged there.
At school, my body showed up before my mind did.
I stared out the window while clouds drifted lazily, my notebook filled with half-done sketches instead of notes.
"Yo bro, Earth to Ron? You've been spacing out since… like, forever." said my best friend Kento.
I smiled without realizing it. "Just… thinking about something good."
The bell rang. Life moved on.
One afternoon, she spoke without looking at me.
"Ever feel like life moves faster when something makes you happy?"
I didn't answer.
I already felt it in how weeks slipped through my fingers like water.
Another day, while the park rested in late afternoon light, she asked what my favourite colour was.
"White," I said.
She blinked. Just once.
Then she smiled—small, thoughtful. Like she'd expected a different answer but didn't mind this one at all.
After that, she started wearing lighter colours more often.
I noticed.
I never mentioned it.
Weeks went by.
Nothing changed—and that was the point.
We never texted. Never planned. We just trusted that the other would show up.
I stopped thinking about competitions. Stopped measuring time in Sundays.
It felt steady. Like something you don't question—because questioning it might break it.
The day she didn't come, I told myself she was late.
I arrived earlier than usual. The bench was empty, sunlight resting where she always sat.
I sat down anyway.
I opened my sketchbook. The pencil hovered more than it moved.
The park felt louder—sharper. A whistle cut through the air. A dog barked endlessly. Kids ran past, laughing too hard.
I checked the time.
Then again.
The bench felt too big.
Running footsteps broke the silence.
"Onii-chan! You're Ron, right?"
"Yeah…" My chest tightened. "You're Ruby's sister?"
"She was coming to meet you," the girl cried. "Please—come quick!"
Red and blue lights painted the sky.
An ambulance. A crowd.
Ruby lay there, still.
White flowers were crushed in her hand.
My knees gave out.
She had been coming… to see me.
The next day didn't really begin—it just happened.
I returned to the park. Same bench. Same quiet.
The sketch of her holding flowers was unfinished. My hands shook as I tried to complete it.
If I'd known it was the last time…
…I would've drawn her smiling.
I folded the page and left it there.
Life went on. School. Friends. Home.
"Yo, bro, I swear this history class is a torture chamber.
Wanna ditch and grab some fries after?" said Kento, one afternoon.
Ron chuckles a bit but stays quiet, looking out the window,
"You go ahead... I've got something to finish."
Kento looks at him—knows he's not okay but respects his space.
"You've changed, Ron.
I know." Kento said, watching ron's eyes.
At home, Mom watched me draw in silence.
"You never told me what happened."
"I lost a piece of me."
She didn't push.
At sunset, the park was still.
The bench waited. Empty.
I placed her sketch down. A single white flower beside it.
"I still come here," I whispered. "Not to wait… but to feel close."
The wind moved the paper just enough.
Some people leave too soon.
But they take a piece of your heart with them.
And somehow…
That piece stays warm.
THE END!