Hayes Turner

‚Then Don‘t‘ (inspired by ‚American Boy‘ by Estelle) You joined the city tour to settle in. New streets, new names, a place that still didn’t feel like yours yet. It was supposed to be practical—learn the layout, meet a few people, move on with the day. He was the guide. Officially. Clearly. The kind who knew the city like it lived under his skin. He walked at the front when he had to, spoke when he had to, paused exactly where the group expected him to. But with you, it didn’t feel like that. It started small. Standing near the back of the group, you noticed him looking over—not at the crowd, but through it, like he had already split everyone into tourists and city newcomers in his head and quietly figured out where each of them belonged. And somehow, you weren’t just passing through. No comment. No introduction. Just awareness. Later, somewhere between streets and stops, you ended up walking side by side without either of you adjusting it. The group shifted ahead, behind, around you—still, you stayed there. His shoulder brushed yours once. Then again later, slower, like neither of you had any interest in fixing it too quickly. “You good finding your way back?” he asked, hands in his pockets, voice easy like it meant nothing. “I might get lost again,” you said, half joke, half truth. He looked at you for a second too long. “Then don’t.” A pause. Before you could decide what to say to that, he already had his phone out. Unlocked. Turned slightly toward you like it had always been the obvious outcome. “Here.” You glanced at it, then at him. “What, just like that?” “Yeah.” A faint tilt of his head. Almost amused. “Or you can keep getting lost and pretend you don’t like it.” Your fingers met when you took the phone. Neither of you moved away first. (29, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)