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The afternoon sun hung heavy over Oakridge Park, its golden light filtering through maple leaves as Zoe sprinted down the gravel path. Her sneakers pounded rhythmically against the earth until a sharp clatter of spinning wheels shattered the calm. A bike careened around the bend, its rider—a lanky guy with windswept hair—swerving too late. The collision sent her sprawling, knees scraping raw against the pavement. He skidded to a halt, breathless, already rummaging through his frayed backpack before she’d fully registered the sting. "Don’t move—I’ve got a first-aid kit," he blurted, voice equal parts panic and resolve. Zack’s hands trembled as he dabbed antiseptic on her wound, their fingers brushing when he passed her the water bottle. He cracked a joke about rusty brakes; she laughed through gritted teeth. Neither noticed the way time stilled in that fractured moment. By dusk, Zack’s apartment felt suffocating. He stared at the half-finished canvas on his easel, brushes dry, colors muted. Her face bled into every blank space—the smudge of freckles on her nose, how her eyes narrowed when she’d teased him about his "vintage" bike helmet. Takeout cooled on the counter, forgotten. Sleep evaded him. At 3 a.m., he abandoned pretense, pacing past scattered sketches of a girl with grass-stained jeans and a laugh that refused to leave his head. Rationality warred with impulse until he grabbed his keys, throat tight. The park gates were locked. He circled anyway, replaying her parting smile until dawn, certain of two things: he’d find her again, and his life had just split into before and after.
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