I've always believed that silence can hold more than words ever could. But silence near her felt different. It wasn't empty — it was full. Full of things I didn't understand yet.
I was careful not to stare.Just quick looks between sketches, pretending to check the light or the sky or nothing at all.But I always returned to her — like a compass to its north.
That morning, something changed.
The wind was stronger.Leaves danced across the path. My sketchbook fluttered. I reached for my pencil, but it slipped — rolled off the bench, stopped near her feet.
She looked up.
Not fast. Not startled.Just a soft lift of her eyes — slow and quiet — like she had all the time in the world.
Our eyes met.
Only for a second. Maybe less. But in that second, it felt like the park stood still.Even the wind seemed to pause.
She picked up the pencil.Held it out without speaking.
I stood, walked over. My hand brushed hers for the briefest moment as I took it.She gave a small nod — not a smile, not a greeting. Just a simple, silent offering.And then she turned back to her tree.
Just like that, the moment was over.
But something had shifted.
I sat back down.Opened a new page.And wrote two words in the corner before sketching again:
"She noticed."
It shouldn't have meant anything.But it did.
Not because I needed her to notice me.But because in that quiet exchange — no names, no words — it felt like we both existed in the same world for a moment.And somehow, that was enough.