Style.

Neither of them had spoken in well over two years. The two friends sat on a sullen bench in a twilit park in early fall. Both the boy, who was by now a man, and girl, who was by now a woman, sat in silence for sometime. Neither knew what to say at first. They stared into the vibrant reds and oranges of the Oaks and Maples of their surroundings. The boy, now a man, seemed lost for words; the girl, now a woman, seemed lost in the beauty of it all.

“I’m sorry.” The boy, now a villain, said a last. He would betray his own vow to not to be the first to speak but he knew now how trivial dramatics were. He sagged forwards and sighed out a little bit. He looked sad for a few seconds then straightened himself out. The bandages over his hands darkened very slightly and he stood to leave. He looked back at the girl, now a temptress, not truly expecting anything.

“I’m sorry.” The Girl, now a butcher, dug the words into the Boy, now the victim. She fell into the general layout of the evening, dressed in very warm colors; she had been stolen from a very important part of her life to visit him. Wordlessly, they had both walked entranced to their favorite part of New York City. Now that they both had said goodbyes they knew quite well that everything that he thought he had and everything she had never wanted was well gone.

They both stood up and left everything they once knew behind.