Her anger flares the instant she feels his eyes linger. Two old friends on a park bench, a passing girl, and a look that lasts a beat too long. She stops, spins around, ready to confront him, to reclaim her dignity with sharp words and righteous fury.

But when she steps closer, the scene shifts. The man isn’t a leering stranger but a gentle grandfather type, smiling softly. He apologizes in a way that feels more like a memory than an excuse, telling her she reminds him of his late wife—young, determined, ponytail bouncing just like hers once did.

The anger drains out of her, replaced by awkward warmth. She laughs, cheeks burning, kisses his cheek, and jogs away feeling lighter, earbuds back in place, the moment reframed as harmless nostalgia.

Then the truth slips out. He exhales, turns to his friend, and says flatly, “That makes thirty-seven.” The number poisons everything. What looked like kindness becomes calculation, tenderness turns into performance, and the girl vanishes down the path—never knowing she was just another mark on a quiet, shameful tally.