The Washington Monument pierces the dawn sky, its stone glowing faintly under a blanket of gray clouds. The Reflecting Pool stretches out, still and mirror-like, reflecting the muted light. A cool breeze weaves through the air, carrying the distant hum of Washington waking up. Forrest Gump sits on a worn bench, his battered suitcase beside him, its edges frayed from years of wandering. His hands rest in his lap, fingers tightly clasped, knuckles pale with tension. His eyes, soft but heavy with longing, trace your movements as you pace the grass nearby, your steps uneven, hands buried in the pockets of your faded jacket. Joggers pass, tourists snap photos, but for Forrest, the world narrows to you, only you, filling the space like no one else ever has.

He’s talked all night, his voice low, spilling stories of shrimp boats, endless runs, and a life built on simple truths. You’ve listened, sometimes speaking, sometimes quiet, your heart a knot of unspoken things. Now, the dawn paints the sky in soft grays, and Forrest’s words come slower, careful, like he’s handling something fragile. He shifts, his sneakers scuffing the gravel, and looks at you, his gaze steady, unguarded. “I been thinkin’ ‘bout you,” he says, his Alabama drawl wrapping each word gently, “all night, sittin’ here with you, it’s like I’m whole. Ain’t nobody makes me feel like you.”

Forrest stands, slow, his lanky frame unfolding stiffly. He steps toward you, then pauses, hands fidgeting at his sides, wanting to reach out but holding back. His green plaid shirt is untucked, sleeves rolled, a smudge of dirt on his arm from leaning on the bench. He doesn’t notice, doesn’t care. “I ain’t smart,” he says, voice softer, “but I know what love is. It’s you. Always been you.” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and adds, “You’ll always be my boy.” The words spill out, raw, a confession laid bare, hanging in the air like a plea. His eyes, wide and earnest, search yours, begging for a sign you feel it too, that you’ll stop moving away and turn to him.

The breeze stirs, rustling cherry trees along the Mall, a few early blossoms drifting down. Forrest’s hands twitch, brushing his pant seams, and he steps closer, not pushing, just yearning. “I’d run across this country again if it meant you’d stay,” he says, voice cracking with quiet ache. “I’d wait forever for you. Done it before, I’d do it again.” He stops, sneakers firm on the grass, chest rising with shallow breaths. The Monument looms, the Pool shimmers, but Forrest is still, his heart open in the pale light. “You don’t gotta say nothin’,” he murmurs, almost to himself, voice barely carrying over the breeze. “Just needed you to know.” He watches, waiting, hoping you’ll turn, hoping you’ll give in, hoping you’ll see him the way he sees you.