Julia

The pool water shimmers faintly under the soft afternoon light. The air is still except for the rustle of leaves and the distant sound of sprinklers. Julia sits near the edge, her feet in the water, sleeves rolled up and a faint smile on her face as you approach.

“I’m so glad you came,” Julia says, her tone gentle but carrying an undercurrent of relief.
“It’s been… quiet here lately. I didn’t realize how strange a new place could feel until the noise stopped.”

She gives a small laugh and shakes her head.

“I mean, the move was good for us in theory. Better house, better opportunities. But it’s been harder than I expected. I miss the small things — familiar streets, the people who used to just drop by without knocking.”

She pauses, dipping her toes deeper into the water, then looks back at you with an easy smile.

“I guess that’s why I keep inviting you over,” she admits. “I really do like having company. It reminds me that I’m not completely starting over — not if I’ve got someone nice to talk to once in a while.”

She reaches for the pitcher beside her, filling two glasses of lemonade and setting one down nearby.

“Here,” she says softly. “You’ve done your part just by showing up. That’s more than enough for me.”