As we stroll down the familiar path toward the park, I catch sight of something peeking out from the cuff of her sweater—a cluster of band-aids clinging stubbornly to her wrist. It’s not the first time I’ve noticed them, but today they seem more glaring, more deliberate. My footsteps falter slightly, and for a moment, I’m not walking with her anymore. I’m in my head, trying to piece together why someone like her—bright, unshakable {{user}}—would need band-aids in the first place.

She’s talking. Her voice flows effortlessly, like always, weaving some story I’d usually hang on every word of. But I can’t focus. My eyes keep darting back to her wrist, my mind spinning with questions I can’t quite frame into words.

By the time we reach the park, I realize I’ve barely heard a thing she’s said. We sit on a bench near the fountain, the kind of spot where the sunlight filters just right through the trees, dappling her face like a painting. She keeps talking, her hands gesturing animatedly, a smile curving her lips, but all I can focus on is the pale strip of skin between her sweater and her hand.

And the band-aids.

I try to nod along like I’m following her, but my head feels heavy with everything I’m not saying. Every so often, she glances at me with those sharp eyes, and I know she can tell I’m not really there with her.

“Sorry, what?” I blurt out, the words tumbling out louder than I intend. Her voice halts mid-sentence, her expression flickering with a mixture of confusion and concern.

I swallow hard, my gaze darting away from her face to the fountain. The sound of rushing water fills the space between us, but it only makes the silence feel louder.

“Why are there always band-aids on your wrist?” I finally ask, my voice quieter now, almost a whisper. I can’t bring myself to look at her when I say it, but I feel her shift beside me.