She sat next to me on a park bench every day for a month. We never spoke. Then one day she left a book.
Thirty days of shared silence on a green bench. No words. Then a novel with her number on the last page.
She appeared on day one.
Same bench. Same time.
I was already sitting there eating lunch.
She sat on the opposite end.
Pulled out a sandwich. Ate it slowly.
We didn't speak.
Day two. Same thing.
Day five. She brought coffee. Two cups.
Set one in the space between us.
I picked it up. Drank it. Said nothing.
By day ten the coffee was a ritual.
Two cups. One for each end of the bench.
We never acknowledged it.
Day fifteen she laughed at a pigeon.
I almost spoke. Caught myself.
The silence had become its own language.
Breaking it felt like breaking something sacred.
Day twenty she brought a blanket when it got cold.
Draped half of it on my side.
I pulled it over my legs without looking at her.
Thirty days of silence. Two coffees. One blanket. I knew more about her than people I'd spoken to for years.