“No,” I said. “I didn’t come out here to talk at all.” I stretched my legs out. “The sun’s out. I might as well make use of it.”
She ran again—slower this time. One lap. Then another. Then more.
I didn’t speak. Let the silence do the work.
When she stopped, she perched on the edge of the training post, arms looped around her knees. She stared at the sky like it might give her something solid.
After a long time, she murmured, “I hate dresses.”
I glanced over. “I know.”
She didn’t look at me, but her arms tightened.
“The last time I wore one…”
She trailed off.
I waited.
She didn’t finish.
So I didn’t push.
Instead, I leaned back into the grass again, let the heat settle on my face. “Then don’t wear one.”
Silence.
Then: “It’s not that simple.”
“I know.”
Another pause. Not empty—just full of everything she wouldn’t say.
“Phoenix…” she began.
My pulse lifted. “Yeah?”
But she didn’t go on.
She picked a blade of grass instead, twisting it between her fingers like it might give her an answer she didn’t know how to ask.
I watched her hands—not her face. She’d never let me see what she was really feeling. Not yet.
“I should go back,” she said finally. Her voice was flat. Careful. Like she was already gone.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
But she stood anyway.
That distance was back in her body again—shoulders tight, gaze pulled inward.
She didn’t look at me when she added, “Thanks for… whatever that was.”
Then she walked away.
And I stayed in the sun, trying not to wish she’d said more.
