They sat in silence.
Vanessa's head remained buried in her folded arms, motionless on the cold convenience store table. Across from her, Vince stared blankly out the glass window, watching cars pass and shadows stretch under the amber glow of streetlights.
The world outside moved on. But here, time felt still.
"Why are you still here?" Vanessa asked, voice muffled against her sleeves.
Vince didn't turn to her. "I don't think I can leave you alone today."
A beat passed.
"Stalker," she murmured.
"I guess I am," he said with a faint smile, taking a quiet sip from the banana milk.
Vanessa slowly lifted her head.
Her face was blotchy—eyes puffy, cheeks red, strands of hair stuck to the tear tracks on her skin. She didn't try to hide it. She just looked at him.
Vince met her eyes.
His hand twitched, a small, instinctive urge to reach out and wipe the tears still clinging to her lashes. But he didn't move. He wasn't that close. Not yet.
So instead, he slid the banana milk a little closer to her, fingers barely brushing the table.
"For what it's worth," he said, voice low, "I don't think you should go through this alone."
Vanessa blinked slowly, but didn't speak.
She looked at the milk, then at him again. Her lips parted slightly, like she might say something—but then she just nodded. Barely. Almost invisible.
"Embarrassing, right?" Vanessa asked, eyes still heavy from crying.
Vince didn't hesitate. "Everyone's got their own family stuff. I'm not judging yours."
"Not everyone has a dad who harasses their mother," she said quietly.
That stopped him.
He opened his mouth—then closed it.
"...That's..." He searched for words, but none felt right. Because she was right. He didn't know what that was like. He had no idea what to say to someone who lived with that kind of reality.
She stood up, brushing her skirt down, her expression back to neutral.
"I have to go. It's getting a bit late."
She started walking toward the door.
"Hey, wait—it" Vince called after her, following as she stepped into the street.
She turned around, giving him a flat look. "Are you a dog?"
"Huh?"
"You keep following me around."
"It's dark out," he shrugged. "And the bus stop's not this way. I've never been to this part of the city. I don't even know where I am."
Vanessa stared at him for a moment.
Then clicked her tongue. "Tsk. Follow me."
She spun around and started walking again, her pace steady, purposeful.
"Where are we going?" he asked, falling in behind her.
"To the bus stop, stupid," she muttered.
She took a turn down a narrow alley, lit by flickering overhead lights and the hum of an old vending machine in the corner.
"Lead the way, I guess..." Vince mumbled, hands in his pockets as he followed her deeper into a side of the city he never knew existed—quietly glad he had.
zigzagging through a maze of narrow alleyways and side streets, Vanessa finally stopped at the edge of a main road that stretched toward the heart of the city.
"If you go straight down this road, you'll see the bus stop," she said, not looking at him.
"Oh, okay. Thanks," Vince replied, then hesitated. "Are you going to be alright heading back? It's already dark."
She turned slightly, her expression calm. "This is my neighborhood. Nothing happens here."
He nodded, but still watched her carefully. "Alright... I'll see you tomorrow, then."
She gave a quiet, noncommittal "Mmm," and turned away, walking off into the night.
Vince watched her for a moment—watched the way she carried herself, not fast, not nervous. Just steady. Like she'd walked that path a hundred times.
He let out a long breath. His chest felt tight, full of something he couldn't name.
How can one girl be so strong?
She had just stood in the middle of chaos, held her ground, and then walked away like she'd patched herself up a thousand times before.
He admired her even more.
And yet... he felt useless. Like all he could do was follow behind her, watching her fight battles he couldn't step into.
Still, he followed the direction she gave and caught the next bus heading home, quiet the entire ride, his thoughts circling like a storm.