The following week unfolded like any other—work deadlines, routine errands, quiet evenings—but for April, there was a shift beneath the surface. A certain anticipation threaded through her days, an awareness that something unexpected had begun to take shape.
She told herself it was nothing. Just a new friend. Just coincidence. Just rain and coffee and a shared laugh over books. But her heart knew better.
And so, when Brandy texted her—Hey, doing anything tonight?—she didn't even hesitate before answering.
Nothing I can't cancel. Why?
Meet me. I want to show you something.
The Riverside
The sun had already begun its descent when they met. Brandy led her through a quiet neighborhood, down winding streets that opened to a hidden path. April followed curiously until the path widened into a stretch of riverside.
It wasn't a glamorous view. No neon lights, no polished boardwalks. Just a river cutting its way through the city, its surface rippling with the reflection of fading gold light. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and wild grass.
April stopped, surprised. "How did I not know this place existed?"
Brandy smiled faintly. "Because most people don't look for places like this. They're too busy rushing past."
She walked to the edge, her heels sinking slightly into the dirt. The water moved lazily, carrying leaves along its surface. She inhaled deeply, savoring the unexpected peace.
"It's beautiful," she said softly.
Brandy sat on the grass, patting the spot beside him. "I come here when I need quiet."
April joined him, brushing her dress carefully as she sat. For a while, they said nothing. The silence was not heavy but full—filled with the rustling of trees, the hum of insects, the soft lapping of water against the bank.
April glanced at Brandy, who leaned back on his hands, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He seemed different here—softer, stripped of the guardedness he wore elsewhere.
"What do you think about when you're here?" she asked.
He was quiet for a long moment before answering. "Mostly about what I've lost. And sometimes… about what I still want."
April's chest tightened. She sensed a weight in his words, something unspoken. But she didn't push. Instead, she whispered, "I think… sometimes silence says more than words can."
Brandy turned to her then, his eyes lingering on her face. The golden light caught in his gaze, and for a breathless second, April felt the world narrow to just the two of them—the river, the fading sun, and the space between their heartbeats.
A Shared Story
As night fell, the air grew cooler. They remained on the riverside, their conversation meandering like the water itself. April told him about her childhood—the endless summers spent chasing fireflies, the stories her grandmother used to tell by candlelight.
Brandy listened quietly, occasionally smiling, occasionally asking questions that made her laugh. When she finished, she nudged him gently. "Your turn."
He hesitated, picking at a blade of grass. "My childhood wasn't really the kind people talk about."
April's voice softened. "You don't have to—"
"No, it's fine." He exhaled. "It was just… lonely. My parents split when I was young. My dad wasn't around much, and my mom worked two jobs. I grew up learning how to take care of myself."
April's heart ached. She wanted to reach for his hand but held back.
"That's probably why I like building things," he added. "Houses, buildings… they stay. They don't leave."
There was a raw honesty in his words that made April's throat tighten. "That must be why you notice details other people miss. You don't take things for granted."
Brandy looked at her, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "You get me better than most people do."
April's pulse quickened. She held his gaze, feeling the weight of the moment. Then, to ease the tension, she smiled gently. "Maybe I'm just good at reading people."
"Or maybe," he said, his voice low, "you're just good at listening."
The Silence Between Them
They fell quiet again, but this time it was charged, like the air before a storm. April could hear her own heartbeat, fast and unsteady. She didn't know what Brandy was thinking, but she could feel his presence beside her like gravity.
The world around them dimmed as night fully claimed the sky. Stars began to scatter above, faint but visible.
April tilted her head back, whispering, "Look at that."
Brandy followed her gaze. The sky was vast, endless, dotted with constellations.
"You know," April said softly, "I used to believe stars were wishes waiting to be found."
Brandy glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "Do you still believe that?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "I want to."
For a long moment, he didn't answer. Then, almost in a whisper, he said, "Maybe some wishes are meant to find us."
April's breath caught. She turned toward him, and their eyes met again. The silence between them pulsed, thick with unspoken longing.
She didn't move closer, and neither did he. But in that moment, she didn't need to. The silence itself carried everything—their fear, their hope, their undeniable pull toward each other.
The Walk Home
Eventually, Brandy stood, offering his hand to help April up. She placed her hand in his, the warmth of his palm lingering longer than it should.
They walked back together through the quiet streets, neither speaking much, both lost in their thoughts. When they reached April's apartment building, they stopped at the steps.
"Thank you," she said softly.
"For what?"
"For sharing this place with me."
Brandy's eyes held hers for a beat longer than necessary. "Thank you for not filling the silence."
April smiled faintly. "Sometimes silence is the most honest conversation."
He nodded, and for a moment, she thought he might lean in, might cross the fragile line between them. But he only stepped back, his voice low.
"Goodnight, April."
"Goodnight, Brandy."
She watched him walk away until he disappeared into the night, her heart still racing with the echoes of their silence.
That Night
April lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the memory of the riverside fresh in her mind. She could still feel the cool grass beneath her hands, still hear the rush of the water, still sense Brandy's gaze on her when he thought she wasn't looking.
Her heart ached with something she couldn't yet name. It wasn't love—not yet. But it was something close, something fragile and dangerous and beautiful.
She whispered into the darkness, "Don't say goodbye."
Meanwhile
Brandy sat on his balcony, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers though he barely smoked. He stared at the stars, replaying April's laughter, her softness, the way she believed in things he thought he'd long forgotten.
She was dangerous. Not because she meant harm, but because she made him feel again. And feeling meant risk.
But as much as he tried to resist it, one truth pressed against his chest.
He didn't want to let her go.
Not now. Not ever.