September called its first truce with the heat and then took it back. On a Tuesday, I ran into Dylan on the street outside a temp agency. It wasn’t a run‑in; it was a cross‑walk. He saw me and didn’t pretend he didn’t. I nodded. He nodded. We stood at our separate curbs and waited for the light.
When the signal changed, we passed each other in the middle. He didn’t say “Kayla” and I didn’t say “Dylan.” I noticed a new suit back home; I noticed a lunch pail. He noticed that I noticed and gave the smallest of shrugs like, I’m trying. I nodded back like, I can see that. The light switched. We kept moving.
Two blocks later, my phone buzzed with a text from a number labeled Christina—pantry: “He didn’t ask me to send this. But today he told a guy in line, ‘I don’t want to take more than I need. Someone else needs this bag of rice more.’ Thought you’d want to know he’s learning portions.” I typed thank you and then deleted it and didn’t reply. Some things need no audience but your own ribcage.