Morning Jogger, Midnight Dreamer

Every morning at exactly six o'clock, Isla pulled her hair back into a ponytail, put on her well-worn sneakers, and went outdoors into the clear morning light. The metropolis was still wiping sleep from its eyelids, and the world was quiet. Running was more than simply exercise; it was a ritual, a haven, and a way to let go.

To get away from the familiar ghosts of a life that had become too peaceful and regular, Isla had relocated to the city three months prior. After marriage, miscarriage, and divorce, she left behind a tidy suburban life that had dried out like overwatered succulents. There were no slammed doors or acrimonious splits. Just quiet and the knowledge that life ought to feel more vibrant.

So she took off running.

She always went through the same area of Riverside Park on her jogs. Although it was not the most picturesque area, it did include a broad route with slumbering trees and a small river bend that perfectly captured the daybreak. For those little moments, Isla would pause to simply breathe in the honey-like flow of gold that covered the surface. She could mutter to herself, "I am still here," in this own cathedral. I am still developing.

She was not alone, though, one morning.

He was slouched but attentive as he sat on the seat facing the river. It was as startling to see him as seeing a deer in your backyard. Jeans, a dark hoodie, and his hands in his pockets. It is more like someone hiding in plain sight than a loiterer or homeless person. But his eyes were wide open, staring at the river bend, and he did not even blink when the sun peeked through the clouds.

Isla sprinted by him.

It did not matter, she reminded herself. The city was teeming with drifters and insomniacs. However, he returned the following morning. and the subsequent one. And once more.

Curiosity curled into her breath like a second wind on the fifth morning. As she got closer to the bench, she slowed. He remained still. Even though his eyes were fixed on the river, she saw him give her a fleeting glance as she went by.

It felt impolite to be silent by the eighth morning.

Sweat clung to her forehead as she slowed to a stop a few feet away, panting lightly. "It is difficult to act like I am the only person in the world at the moment, you know."

Slowly he turned, his face unreadable. "I apologize," he said. "I did not mean to disturb your privacy."

She was taken aback by his gravelly, low voice, which was steady but tinged with weariness.

She gave a partial smile. "Are you constantly here, or what?"

Only in the mornings. Inability to sleep at night. The quietest period is now.

Isla gave a nod. Jogging is less expensive than treatment.

He gave a quiet laugh.

That was it. She continued to jog.

When she came over the following morning, he gave her a nod. She returned the nod. “You always take the same route?” he inquired a few days later.

She remarked, "I like the bend." "This is my golden age."

"I understand your meaning."

Finally, they introduced themselves. Leo was his name. He was a musician by profession and a night owl by nature; he played the piano at bars and lounges. worked primarily every night from 9 p.m. to 1 a.m.

He once informed her, "I do not go to sleep till three." Therefore, I reasoned, why oppose it? Give me the night.

She remarked, "But you are here every morning."

"Yes," he said with a shrug. "I began visiting here following performances. Just to get my mind straight. Then one day I noticed you rushing by and— He cleared his throat and stopped. "Then the sunrise began to have significance."

Something unspoken tingled in the air, like a tune that never ends, and Isla felt it.

So she continued to jog. He continued to appear.

No numbers were exchanged between them. did not send a text. did not get together when they were not in the morning. That seat, that bend, that transition between day and night was their universe. Only in the golden silence of the morning did their distinct lives come together.

As the weeks went by, Isla became aware of an oddity. She began to dream. Real, vivid dreams, not nightmares or dreamlike wanderings. of him.

In one, the jukebox played a slow, melancholy tune as they danced in an empty bar. In another, she sat on the windowsill reading Neruda aloud while he played the piano in a sunlit room.

Leo was always there when she got back to the bend in the morning, and he would inquire, "How was your sleep?"

She also occasionally wanted to remark, "I dreamed of you," but she refrained.

Rather, she responded with "Okay," "Restless," or "The usual."

Then he disappeared one morning.

Isla tried not to feel that sharp sense of abandonment as she jogged passed the bench. Perhaps he had a late-night gig. He might have been ill. Perhaps he became weary of their transitional environment.

No Leo the following morning.

A week went by. Next, two. And nothing has changed.

There was a hollowness in the golden curve. All that was on the bench were screws and wood. Still, there was no one to share the honey-like daybreak with.

Forget, she told herself. She hardly knew him, and he was not even real. She had no idea what made him weep, where he lived, or what he enjoyed for breakfast. However, she was aware of his speech patterns, including the way he cocked his head in thought and the way his tone dropped when he called her name.

She stopped her jog in the middle of the 21st morning. walked around the bend. Perched on the bench.

It had a subtle scent of wildflowers and moist wood.

She went to a piano lounge across the city that night on a whim. The sort of location where secrets and scotch mingled.

She looked around the room. Her heart fell. She was the pianist.

Two nights later, she tried somewhere else. There was a man playing in a gray suit. Not Leo.

She then entered a more subdued pub close to Midtown on the third night. Not for her, but for the man sitting at the baby grand piano in the corner, silence descended on the room.

At night, he appeared different—sleek, focused, and unflappably calm. With his sleeves rolled up and his fingers moving like long-term lovers across the keys, he wore a black button-down shirt.

She was not sure if she should approach or leave.

Then he raised his head.

and caught sight of her.

and grinned.

He continued to play without pausing. However, something changed. The tune grew softer. warmed up.

When his set was over, he walked over to her, grinning crookedly.

"I never imagined seeing you in my universe."

"You vanished from mine," she remarked.

In an apologetic tone, he answered, "I had to take care of things." "My mother became ill. I had to take a plane. I apologize for not saying farewell.

She said in a whisper, "You did not have to."

They were suspended for a minute.

"Want to take a stroll?" he inquired.

She gave a nod.

They strolled through the city's dimly illuminated streets as if they had never seen it before. He told her about his upbringing in jazz and heartbreak, about losing his father when he was sixteen and how he learned to play the piano in order to feel his presence. She described to him the life she left behind, the baby she lost, and how the morning gave her a new sense of self.

When they arrived at the river—the same river that appeared golden in the mornings—the moonlight made it appear silver.

Isla remarked, "I never dreamed I would see it like this."

Leo whispered, "Night has its own type of illumination."

She truly gave him her full attention. She claimed to have had dreams. "Relating to you."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Me too," he replied.

That night, they did not share a kiss.

She was not jogging, though, a few mornings later.

She chose to sit on the bench instead.

And he sat next to her when he got there, just off his performance.

They remained silent.

As always, they simply watched the sun rise, but now it was theirs together.