The Bench

Zoe staked out the old, worn wooden bench outside the tennis courts after class. It wasn't pleasant—sun-baked, frayed-out grooves, and doggedly lopsided—but somehow, half-concealed, and hers. A small sanctuary jammed between the school bell racket and echoing balls.

It was where her sketchbook came alive.

His pages were an encapsulated montage of individuals she had seen from afar: the custodian with coffee as though it were holy water, the small boy always in a rush to catch a stray soccer ball, and him—the boy in noise-cancelling headphones and immaculate footwork, always drilling by himself as if owing anybody proof except himself.

She did not know his name.

And yet, stroke after stroke, day after day, he just kept showing up in her drawings.

Then, one Thursday, he worked it out.

"You fidget," he said to her, making her jump as he leaned in. He was sweating, his face flushed and speckled, and grinning like he already knew.

Zoe's heart skipped a beat. "I—I guess so. You move like you're not paying attention to here. Like you're. somewhere else."

He smiled, sitting next to her on the bench. "That's good enough reason."

His name was Luca. Had transferred recently. Groused that he loathed being the "new kid." Loathed being the specter who floats through throngs of people too self-absorbed to recognize you.

"But you saw me," he whispered, as if he were amazed.

The bench wasn't quite Zoe's anymore after that.

Some days she sketched while he practiced. Some days he sat beside her and talked about everything—how he missed his old school, how his mom put ketchup on everything, how silence can be the loudest sound when you’re always on your own. And some days, they didn’t speak at all. Just existed there, side by side, letting the buzz of the tennis courts and the breeze through the chain-link fence do the talking.

They never ever actually told her what this was.

It just.
was.

Spring rolled itself out slowly—jackets disappeared, flowers stuck to the branches like party balloons, and the wind warmed up so much that time seemed to run slower close to the bench.

One day, Luca showed up with two milkshakes—strawberry and chocolate.

He gave her the strawberry quietly.

"You remembered," Zoe smiled, surprised by the sweetness of it.

"I listen," he told her, scowling his eyes in a smile.

She inched nearer, shoulder against his warm, sketchbook on her knee. On the blank page was a new drawing—not of him in the middle of working or of her alone—but of the two of them, side by side on the bench, heads a little tilted to one side. A snapshot, not only of a moment, but of a feeling.

Luca looked down at it, blinks once, as if it surprised him.

"This one," he breathed, "This is my favorite version of me."

Zoe didn't say anything. She just crouched down and reached out and took his hand, their fingers slipping together smoothly.

The bench was the same—sun-bleached, stiff, a little too rough.

And yet, it was the softest thing in the universe.