“My parents always told me to avoid the park after dark, no matter what.” She broke the silence. “It’s funny being here with you, of all people.”

I shrugged, thinking how funny it was after everything.

“Is it crazy that I’ve been at that apartment for almost two years and…?” Her voice trailed off, loneliness radiating through her words.

“It’s a big park. Don’t worry, Princess. I know the place like the back of my hand.”

She was silent for a long time, her fingertips grazing my forearm, every tremor like a lead weight connected directly to me. It had torn me up when she’d stomped out of the coffee shop a few days ago. Maybe that’s why I was here, to make amends and absolve myself of the guilt of hurting her.

I shoved my hand through my hair, annoyed that I’d let her get to me this much. I wasn’t one to overthink my every word, but with her, I couldn’t stop.

“I tagged my first wall over there.” I nodded around the corner to a low brick wall painted dark gray. “The streetlamp over there is just out of view. It’s always shadowy—a pretty safe tag for a first-timer.”

Her grin deepened as we took a few steps down the path so she could get a close-up of the wall. “What was it?”

I tensed, remembering my first piece like a brand behind my eyelids. “For my dad, the night after I found out he’d killed himself. I walked around the park for hours, lost in the only place I knew as home. I had to…mark it somehow, leave an imprint of my pain.”

I swallowed, the bright blue and purple slashes of color emblazoned like a tattoo. “There was this game he took me to when I was a kid, one of the first summers we spent in the city. Mets and Yankees. I sketched the mascots, adding the final stats of the game in roman numerals. It took me four hours to do it, trying to dodge stray park people walking by. I hid in the bushes so many times that night.” I laughed, remembering my amateur move to tag a high-traffic area. “I’ve memorized every single detail of that game. The park service had it painted over by the next night.”

“Is it hard? Seeing it painted over so soon? Why not put your stuff in a gallery and sell it? Allow the highest number of people to see it?”

“It’s not about that. It’s about the right people seeing it.”

I shoved a hand into my pocket, fishing out one of the slim cans of black spray paint I always kept on me. “Try it.”

She shook her head, soft waves flying around her face. “What would I do?”

“What do you have to say?”