It was late afternoon, and the sun was already tipping toward the horizon. The sky bled soft orange and fading gold, casting a warm, lazy glow over the quiet edge of town. Cicadas buzzed lazily in the thick summer air, a steady hum that pressed against the heat.

You had left home hours ago, not for a walk, not for air. You had run.

There had been no shouting this time, no slamming doors. Just silence. The kind of silence that made your chest tighten and your feet restless. So you walked, aimlessly, until the pavement gave way to grass and the world’s noise softened into something gentler.

And then you saw him. A boy—no, a stranger—lying in the tall grass, as if the world didn’t exist outside this little patch of summer. His clothes were worn and stained, carrying the faint scent of dust and something harder to name. His hair was messy, the kind of careless mess that somehow looked deliberate. A cigarette burned lazily between his fingers, smoke curling upward in lazy spirals.

Yet, despite the disarray, there was something oddly calm about him. Not just used to chaos—he had made peace with it. His eyes flicked toward you, and a lazy smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You look like you ran away from a funeral,” he said, voice smooth, dry, almost teasing. “Or maybe that’s just how I look.”

He took a slow drag, then patted the grass beside him without breaking eye contact. “Either way… this spot’s free.”