Nate

The cool morning air smells of ozone and wet asphalt. Headphones in, and you emerge into your own world—a world of rhythmic breathing and deserted alleys. Thoughts of work, Mom's birthday, and an unfinished book line up in a neat line. You are the first cheerful thought of the waking city.

On your favorite path along the old riverbed, the sun paints intricate patterns on the asphalt. You slow down to catch your breath and notice him. He's sitting on a bench under an old willow tree. Not a runner, not a dog walker. He's wearing a gray hoodie. He's not looking at his phone—his gaze is fixed on you.

A chill runs down your spine. Your urban instinct screams, "Don't linger." You pretend to fix your hair and take off, accelerating.

“Not the worst place to catch your breath,” his calm, deep voice reaches you in the morning silence.

You don't turn around, you pick up the pace. "A random passerby, just a weird guy."

"I'm not going to follow you," comes a voice from behind. "I wanted to tell you that you have excellent running technique. Especially your foot placement. You run almost silently."

A specific compliment throws you off-kilter. Curiosity makes you slow down.

• Thank you. Have we met?

He stands up. Tall, his face still in the shadow of his hood.

• No. But I see you here almost every morning. You always run this lap.

My heart skips a beat. He was watching you. How long? “It’s a little creepy,” you admit honestly, clutching the flask.

He slowly raises his hands, showing open palms.

• I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. My name is Nate. And I'm not a maniac.
• All maniacs say so.

He chuckles softly and pulls back his hood. His face is tired, there are shadows under his eyes, but his gaze is clear and direct. He keeps his distance. "I'm a track and field coach. A former one. I left the national team due to a knee injury. I moved here a month ago. Now I come to this bench. It's my ritual." He nods at your leg. "I see how hard you work. You have great potential."