Where the wildflowers grow

Where the Wildflowers Grow

Loneliness doesn't arrive all at once. It creeps in, slow and quiet, until one day, you realize you're fading. You sit in crowded rooms, walk through familiar halls, but you don't exist the way other people do.

So I walk.

At night, when the silence is too heavy, I follow the abandoned train tracks on the edge of town-where rust and wildflowers have swallowed what's left. It's the only place that feels like me.

That's where I see him.

A boy, arms outstretched, balancing on the rail like he belongs to the sky. Dark curls, oversized hoodie, lost in his own world. There's something weightless about him, something that makes my chest tighten.

I don't think. I just speak.

"Are you trying to die?"

He startles, foot slipping slightly, then turns to me. His eyes are dark, unreadable. Then-he smiles.

Lopsided. A little reckless.

"Nah," he says, voice rough with something unspoken. "Just pretending I can fly."