The sun was sinking behind the skyline, turning glass towers into rivers of gold. The air was cooler now, touched by the faint scent of rain returning. The city pulsed softly — streetlights flickering awake, children laughing somewhere in the distance, the world shifting gently from day to evening.
Evan and Liora walked side by side, their steps unhurried. Between them stretched that familiar silence — not awkward, not empty — the kind of silence that hums with comfort, like a shared secret neither is ready to name.
"You always walk this slow?" Liora teased, glancing at him sideways.
Evan smiled, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Only when I don't want to reach the end."
She laughed, the sound light and genuine. "That's poetic."
He shrugged. "Bad habit of an artist."
"Or a romantic," she said, half under her breath.
He looked at her, studying her expression — but she was staring ahead, pretending not to notice his gaze.
They crossed a small bridge draped in hanging lights. The reflections of the lamps shimmered on the water below, rippling with every whisper of wind. Liora paused, leaning over the railing. "I love this part of the city," she said softly. "It feels like a place that remembers things."
"Remembers?"
She nodded. "The people who walked here. The things they said. The promises they didn't keep." She smiled faintly. "I like to think the water keeps them safe."
Evan leaned beside her. "Maybe it does."
For a moment, neither spoke. They just watched the current, the small ripples catching the fading light.
Then she said, "Do you ever draw places you love?"
"I draw people," he replied, his voice gentle. "But sometimes… it's the place that tells their story."
Liora looked at him, curiosity dancing in her eyes. "And what does this place tell about us?"
Evan hesitated, searching for the right words. "That maybe…" He exhaled, smiling softly. "Maybe two strangers can find something familiar in each other."
Her smile wavered, not from doubt but from something deeper — a warmth, an understanding she didn't expect. "You talk like every sentence has meaning."
"Maybe they do," he said simply.
They kept walking. The conversation wandered — art, books, music, the strange little things that made them both human. Liora told him she collected postcards she never sent. "It's my way of holding moments," she said. "Each card belongs to a day I never want to forget."
Evan listened like he was hearing poetry, every word another brushstroke of her soul.
When they reached her street, the sky had turned a deep violet. She stopped by the corner, facing him with that same quiet smile she wore under the rain. "Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For walking slow."
Evan chuckled, though his heart was suddenly too full. "Anytime."
For a second, it felt like they might say something more — something fragile and dangerous, the kind of words that change everything. But she only stepped back, holding his gaze a little too long. "Goodnight, Evan."
"Goodnight, Liora."
She turned away, her hair catching the streetlight as she disappeared into the soft glow of evening. Evan stood there until she was gone, his pulse echoing quietly in his chest. He felt the familiar ache of parting, but this time it wasn't hollow — it was alive.
He opened his sketchbook then and there, under the streetlight, and drew the bridge, the river, and two faint silhouettes walking side by side — not touching, but close enough to share the same rhythm.
When he closed the book, he realized something he hadn't felt in years.
He was no longer just observing life.He was living it.