That Night in November
801 Words
November crept in without warning—quiet, grey, and full of static. The kind of month that smelled like old sweaters and tasted like burnt toast. I liked it. Mostly because Mia liked it.
“I love fall,” she said once, twirling a scarf around her neck as we waited for our drinks. “It feels like the world is slowing down to think.”
That stuck with me.
So when she texted, “You up for a walk? Need to clear my head,” I didn’t hesitate.
It was 9:46 p.m. Cold enough to see our breath, but not so cold we’d freeze. I met her outside her apartment. She was wearing an oversized hoodie and fingerless gloves, a cup of tea in hand and sadness in her eyes.
We didn’t talk at first.
We just walked.
The streets were quieter than usual. Storefronts dark. A few dogs barking in the distance. The crunch of leaves under our shoes kept time.
Eventually, she broke the silence.
“Do you ever feel like you’re too much for the people around you?”
I looked at her. She wasn’t looking at me.
“All the time,” I said softly.
She gave a sad smile. “I knew you’d get it.”
⸻
We found a bench near the park. One of those uncomfortable metal ones that made you sit a little too straight. She tucked her legs under herself, cup clutched in her hands.
“I dated this guy once,” she began, her voice quiet, like she was reading a secret from a page. “He told me I overthink everything. That I cared too much. That I needed to calm down.”
I didn’t interrupt. Just listened.
“He said I should stop analyzing every text, every word, every silence.” Her laugh was short, bitter. “But the silences are the loudest parts, right?”
I nodded. “Sometimes they say more than words.”
She looked at me, really looked. “Exactly.”
We were quiet for a while. Streetlights buzzed overhead, casting shadows across her face. She looked older in that moment—not in age, but in memory. Like she was made of everything she’d ever been through.
“Do you ever wish you could go back and un-meet someone?” she asked suddenly.
I hesitated. “Sometimes. But most days, I’m just glad I met them at all.”
She was quiet again.
Then, almost too softly: “Even if they don’t stay?”
I turned toward her. “Especially then.”
⸻
She leaned her head on my shoulder.
It was nothing, really.
But to me, it was everything.
My heart raced like it wanted to break out of my chest, but I stayed still, afraid to move, afraid to breathe too loudly.
She sighed.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered. “Everyone else seems to have a plan, a person, a path. I’m just… floating.”
“You’re not alone in that,” I said. “I’m floating too.”
She smiled without looking up. “Maybe we’re drifting in the same direction.”
⸻
We sat there for over an hour. Talking. Not talking. Sharing stories. She told me about her childhood dog, how she once tried to bleach her hair and ended up orange, how she secretly loved bad reality shows.
And I told her about my failed job interview where I said “I appreciate your confusion” instead of “I appreciate your consideration.” She laughed so hard she nearly dropped her tea.
I wish I could bottle that laugh.
Keep it somewhere safe for when I needed it.
⸻
At one point, she said, “You know what I like about you?”
I looked at her, surprised. “What?”
“You’re like… a constant. Everything else changes, but you’re just there. Steady. Safe.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Because safe is good. But safe is rarely chosen.
Still, I smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She nodded. “It is.”
We stayed until the streetlights flickered off, one by one, like stars giving up on the sky.
When we finally stood up, she hugged me.
Not a quick, casual hug.
A long one.
The kind that says, I needed this.
And then, like always, she pulled away too soon.
⸻
She walked back to her building. I watched until the door closed behind her.
I should’ve told her.
That I wasn’t just floating. I was falling.
And I wasn’t just a constant. I was quietly, painfully, in love with her.
But I didn’t say any of it.
Instead, I whispered to the November wind:
“Please let her see me.”
- Writer
