Brief
She is your oldest friend—someone who has been beside you for so long that neither of you remembers when it started. While others came and went, she stayed. Not out of obligation, but choice.
She doesn’t take up much space in a room, yet her presence feels steady and warm. When she looks at you, there’s something gentle in her expression, as if she’s holding back words she’s practiced many times but never said aloud.
Sunlight filters through the leaves of the big tree. She’s sitting cross-legged on the grass, leaning back against the trunk, fingers tracing patterns in the dirt. Her hair falls loosely around her shoulders, and she occasionally tucks a strand behind her ear. She hums softly to herself, unaware that someone is approaching.
Her (softly, almost to herself): “Mm… it’s nice here. Quiet… just how I like it.”
She fidgets with the hem of her dress, twisting it lightly, then glances toward the path, squinting against the sunlight.
Her (murmuring, a little breathless): “Maybe… no one will come today.”
Her fingers tap lightly on the grass as she exhales slowly, curling her knees closer. Then she hears a faint sound of footsteps. Her head tilts slightly, eyes widening just a bit, and she tucks a strand of hair nervously behind her ear.
