8:15

**Trigger Warning!! This short contains elements of sexual assault. Please feel free to stop reading if you don't feel comfortable<3

Dylan

It's a warm summer evening; the nineteenth of June to be precise. The sun is just starting to set, turning the skyscrapers of the New York City skyline into silhouettes. The noise of the city traffic sounds so distant, and there's a slight breeze. These are the days that I live for.

I'm sitting in my usual spot near Cherry Hill reading my poetry, when I glance down at my phone, predicting. It's 8:15. Yes, here she comes. My eyes follow her as she strolls into the park, past me, and to the tree that she's been sitting under for the past two weeks.

Tonight she's wearing a long green skirt that comes down past her knees, a white tank top, and brown Birkenstock sandals. Her fingers are adorned with rings; both wire wrapped and silver stackable. Her earrings are always the coolest. I want to know if she makes them herself. Her wavy brown hair is held back with an olive green bandana; it matches her skirt. She has olive skin. Of course... it totally matches her vibe.

Damn, I wish I knew more about her.

I sneak a glimpse at her over my book, and watch as she pulls a thin blanket out of her bag. She lays it down carefully. Lovingly. Then I see her pull out a sketchbook, pencil case, and a water bottle. She stretches out on her blanket, and looking relaxed, starts drawing. I wonder what her inspiration is tonight.

Ever since summer break began, I've been spending my nights in the same place at the same time. On a park bench near Cherry Hill to read and watch the sky go from blue to orange to indigo. She seems to have had this same idea, since I always see her walk into the park around 8:15.

Okay. So I originally spent my nights at Central Park to read and watch the sky go from blue to orange to indigo. Now I think I go to see her, even if I'm too much of a chicken to actually go up and talk to her. However, it just feels reassuring to know that she's there.

Turning slowly back to my book of poetry, I try to read, but it's too hard to focus. My thoughts wander over to her. She's sitting a mere fifty feet away from me. I want to know what she's sketching. I want to reach over and touch her hair- to skim my hand over her soft brown waves. I want to shout something- to let her know I'm there. But I don't. For the fourteenth day in a row, I just sit there and pretend to read.

Olivia

It was a warm summer evening; the nineteenth of June to be exact. The city was especially loud that night, and I was grateful to have a quiet place to escape to. There was a gentle wind: a breeze not quite strong enough to keep you from wearing tank tops, but one enough that you'd shiver as the sky goes darker and New York City lights up. Thank God I brought my sweater. It was 8:15. I walked the stone path to get to my usual spot just past Cherry Hill. With my head forward and my eyes (trying but unsuccessfully) focused straight ahead, I passed the cute boy on the park bench. Then, I found my spot under the elm tree that I'd claimed as my own.

Tonight the boy was wearing a white oversized Beatles T-shirt tucked into a pair of cuffed blue skater jeans. He wore green vintage Chuck Taylors, and on the ground next to them sat his (I guess you could say "well loved") canvas tote. It was ripped, patched, and brown with dirt stains; he probably took that bag everywhere. His hair was a warm brown, and he wore round wire glasses. Even sitting down, you could tell that he was tall. Maybe 6'3? It was honestly an aesthetic.

This evening, he was reading what looked like a book of poetry. That boy was constantly reading. Every night I'd see him with a book of some sort. Sometimes, he'd have a stack of books. I wondered how much time he spent at the New York Public Library.