The city never really sleeps.
Even when the sun has long dipped below the horizon, and most of the shops have pulled down their shutters, there's still a pulse — soft and steady — beating through the streets. The hum of distant cars, the occasional murmur of voices, the fluttering of leaves caught in the breeze. It all feels like a secret world that belongs only to those who know how to listen.
Tonight, I found myself walking that world alone.
My footsteps echoed softly on the cracked pavement as I made my usual way home — the long way, because I liked the quiet. Because it gave me a moment away from the chatter of family dinners, the expectations in my school hallways, and the endless hum of people watching me, judging me. I was just a girl, after all. Simple. Sweet. Not perfect. Not special. But somehow, even in my plainness, I craved something real.
The air was cool against my skin, a delicate chill that made me pull my cardigan a little tighter around my shoulders. The streetlights cast pools of amber light on the road, and the smell of rain lingered faintly, even though the sky was stubbornly clear. I liked that about the city too — the way it held onto little mysteries, like secrets waiting to be uncovered.
I passed the old bookstore on Maple Street, its windows fogged and cracked, vines curling along the frame like fingers. I imagined the stories trapped inside, the worlds waiting to be opened like doors. For a moment, I wished I could step inside and disappear between pages, far from the worries that followed me like shadows.
Then I saw him.
He was slumped against the brick wall just beyond the bookstore, barely visible in the dim light. His hoodie was soaked with something dark, and he pressed one hand to his side like he was trying to stop the pain from spilling out.
My heart stopped.
The stories in books always said: Run. Avoid. Don't get involved.
But my feet moved before my brain could catch up.
"Are you okay?" My voice came out softer than I meant it, a whisper against the quiet night.
His head lifted slowly, dark eyes sharp and wild. His jaw was set like stone, but there was a crack there — a flicker of something tired, something broken.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, voice low and rough, like he hadn't spoken in days.
"I wasn't going to bother you," I said, stepping closer. "But you're hurt."
He glanced down at his side, where blood had soaked through the fabric. The sight should've scared me, but it didn't.
Instead, it pulled me in.
"Let me help," I said, fumbling in my bag for a clean cloth.
He hesitated. A flash of warning flickered in his eyes, but then he nodded.
The cold night air prickled my skin as I pressed the cloth to his side. His hand trembled slightly as he held it there.
"What happened?" I asked quietly.
He shook his head. "Nothing you need to know."
But I saw the truth in the way his eyes darkened. The secrets he tried to hide.
The pain he refused to admit.
I wanted to ask more. To understand. To fix it. But I didn't know how.
Instead, I just stayed there, silent.
When I looked up, his eyes met mine again. There was something raw and real there — a flicker of gratitude, a crack in the armor.
"Thanks," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
I smiled softly, though my hands still trembled.
"You're lucky I took the long way home tonight."
A shadow of a smile crossed his lips.
"Yeah. Lucky."
And just like that, I left.
But I knew he was watching.
Like he already knew this was just the beginning.