"Hey man, where have you been these days? For a mont, I thought you were dead."
"Nah... just getting a better grip on reality."
"That so, huh?"
"Yeah. No point wasting ti on soone who's already gone. Better to look ahead than keep digging up graves."
"Now you talkin' like a man."
"I am a man... just need to forget about her. That's all she'd want anyway."
Paul stood from his seat. His chair scraped against the floor, cutting through the noise.
He glanced once toward Varsha, then to her, she'd been staring at him the whole ti.
He didn't say anything, just walked toward the exit slowly.
His steps had that sa tired weight; body was still aching even after the dicine.
The voices behind him kept going, fading as the door closed.
Forget about it. Move forward. Let it go.
If you go deeper, it'll eat you. Destroy you.
That's what people say. Even I've thought about it. Maybe you too? Haven't you thought of just... letting it all go? At least once?
But that's for the weak, you know that, right?
When they can't face the truth. Can't handle their responsibilities. What they've done.
It's the best excuse. It's not understanding if you can't bear the truth—
it's running. Running far, far away just to escape.
If you can't gaze into the abyss until it stares back—
"Sa as usual? Two by two?"
He nodded.
Look at him. Nice, kind, generous, or whatever you call it. He's got one job: to rember. That's all.
He doesn't need to lie to himself. Why? Because he doesn't have to. He doesn't wear masks like you, or the others. He isn't running from anything.
His whole life is built around rembering—and not forgetting. Repeating the sa cycle every day. Like following the sa fucking script.
Look around yourself. Don't you feel it?
Sa faces. Sa actions. The sa conversations.
From waking up, to going to school, to hearing the sa lectures again and again.
Without missing a beat.
But she... she is different.
Varsha Grayson.
The reason I'm here. Stuck in this loop.
You can tell she's a little different from the mont you see her.
Maybe you can hear her thoughts.
Maybe you can tell why she's like that.
Maybe you can tell she's alive.... Real.
You still rember that question you asked ?
Why don't I like coming to this place...
I've been thinking about it, and realized, I don't hate this place.
Doesn't an I like it though.
What I hate... is .
The one stuck here.
"What happened to your hand?"
He turned to her.
"Little burned," he said.
"Hm..." She tilted her head a little, eyes narrowing. "Let's see."
She pushed herself closer before he could move back. Her gaze flicked over the bandage, then up to his face.
"All I see is a liar."
Paul said nothing.
He just looked down at his hand, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.
"Well, I can pretty much tell the story." She smirked.
"Whatever..." Paul said weakly.
The wind brushed past them, carrying the faint shouts from the playground behind.
She closed her eyes for a mont, picturing the mont his walk turned into a stumble, the bruises blooming under the sleeve, the bandage that looked anything but fresh.
His face told another story entirely.
She snapped back. "Another fight? And you were beaten worse than street dogs this ti. But how?"
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
She waited, curiosity flickering like a match. Paul didn't reply.
"Were they strong?"
"He," Paul corrected her.
"Single dude?" She blinked. "Can't believe it. Single...? I an like— damn. Was he stronger than those three guys?"
"He was."
"How much?" Her curiosity grew.
He raised his bandaged hand.
She exhaled, adjusting her tone. "Yeah... ain't hard to guess."
A few seconds of silence passed. The tal bench creaked softly beneath them.
"Still... who won though?" she blurted out.
"I don't know." Paul replied.
"You don't know?" she muttered to herself, brows tightening. "Who was standing at the end?"
He turned his head toward her. His face unreadable. But she understood.
"Really??" she whispered.
From the way he looked, injured, drained. It was hard to tell if he was the one left standing.
Then what happened to that guy?
Her chest tightened. A faint chill crawled up her spine.
"You didn't kill him, ...did you?" Her tone tried to sound teasing, but the words ca out thin.
"He was breathing," Paul said.
"Breathing... He didn't then..." Her voice faltered. The aning twisted in her chest.
"Wait—what? What did you an he was breathing? And why the hell do you sound so casual? Like it's your every Saturday thing."
Paul stayed silent.
"I don't even know what to say..." She leaned back, pulse rising.
"The way you say things like that so casually. I want to believe it's just a lie. But then again..."
She turned to him, voice low.
"I've seen it myself."
She stretched her arms with a lazy yawn, her shoulders rolling as if to shake off the weight of the day.
The air between them was mild, brushed by the distant sound of the playground. Children laughing, sneakers hitting the court, a whistle blowing far off.
She glanced sideways at Paul, studying him for a mont, then deliberately leaned closer and pressed her hand against his bandaged one.
A sharp breath left his mouth, the sound rough and low. His brows tightened.
"Oh… I'm sorry. I didn't an to," she said quickly, her tone coated with false innocence. "It really hurts, doesn't it? I can tell."
"Not much." Paul brushed it off.
"Hm." She smiled faintly. "Is that so…"
Before he could move, her hand shot forward, trying to grab his again. Paul jerked it away instantly, eyes narrowing. "Are you retarded?" he muttered, his voice edged.
She blinked, unfazed. "Didn't you just say it doesn't hurt?"
He didn't answer, only stared back at her. The silence hung between them heavily.
Mia exhaled, letting her shoulders drop. "That's what I'm talking about," she said quietly. "You don't always have to act tough. If it hurts, then say it."
Paul looked away, toward the playground. The noise in the background blurred into a single hum. His gaze dropped to his hand. Slowly, he tightened it into a fist. Pain flared up, sharp, pulsing beneath the bandage. It hurt. Of course it did.
He loosened it quickly when he saw a faint line of red start to bloom through the cloth.
"Well, since I'm very nice," Mia said, tone bright again, "I can give you a hand. What do you say? I'm a very good chef, you just have to say it."
Her hand reached for his again playfully, hovering inches from his fingers.
Paul's hand snapped back instantly. "No." His voice ca low. "You better stay out of this."
"Yeah, yeah," she scoffed, leaning back against the bench. "I'll stay out of it. But…" her voice lowered, "what about her?"
Paul turned slightly, his brow creasing. "Her?"
"Oh, don't play dumb with ." She was watching the playground now, the way the sun hit the swings, the wind carrying faint laughter. "I've seen how she talks to you. Like she knows you better… more than ."
She turned back, catching his eyes. "So tell what is it? What are you running from?"
He didn't blink.
"You talked with her?" Paul asked, his hand twitched slightly against his leg.
"Maybe…" she said, her voice lilting with amusent. "Maybe not."
The quiet stretched again. Paul's expression didn't change, but inside his thoughts turned dark. For a fleeting second, he imagined his hand around her throat— Don't.
Then he drew in a breath, long and steady, and looked away.
She doesn't know anything. No one knows anything.
"Anyway," she said, breaking the silence.
"You heard the latest news?"
Paul didn't look at her. "No."
"Well, that's your thing, I guess." She gave a small shrug, eyes following a group of students across the playground before turning back to the front. "But there've been a lot of car accidents lately."
"Lot of?"
"Yeah, like five or six just this week. Doesn't that sound weird to you?" she said, almost amused. "Two of them were fatal, too. Feels like too much for coincidence."
Paul said nothing, just adjusted his posture slightly, eyes half-closed against the sunlight.
"I an," she continued, "maybe it's all just bad luck, right? Wrong ti, wrong place. But…" She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "There are rumours going around. And they say sothing different."
"Different?" Paul asked quietly.
"Yeah." Her tone dropped even lower, just above a whisper. "They say these weren't accidents. Soone's been doing it deliberately. The first victim. I don't rember his na, but the report said he was a hard worker. And get this: people are saying that after he died, he never really left. That he's still wandering the city. Because before his death, he found out his crash wasn't an accident at all. It was planned."
Paul's eyes shifted slightly. "Don't believe in rumours," he said. "Not until you've seen them yourself."
"Yeah, but that's the thing," she said, smiling faintly. "How can you see soone who doesn't exist? Like a… ghost, maybe." Her eyes glimred with mischief. "Can you accuse soone of murder if they're already dead?"
"Sounds absurd."
"Yeah, right."
"You shouldn't believe in rumours."
"Who said I do?" she shot back with a smirk. "I was just sharing it. You never share anything anyway."
Paul gave a faint nod and pushed himself up from the bench.
"Where you headed now?" she asked.
"It's ti," he said simply.
"Ti really does fly, huh…" She leaned back, stretching again. "I'll join you later."
He didn't wait for her reply, just turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the noise of the school grounds.
Mia stayed where she was, her eyes following him for a while before drifting to the playground again.
"Weird as ever," she whispered to herself, almost smiling.
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