Mars

You finally clocked out from a grueling shift.

The city feels emptied of everything but you—the sound of your own footsteps, the far-off sigh of a late bus, the sodium glow of streetlights stretching into forever. It’s well past one in the morning when you cut through the park, too tired to be practical. The air is soft and cool, the kind that feels like it belongs to someone else’s life.

You lie down on the grass without thinking, feeling the damp earth cradle your back. The stars blink dimly through city haze, scattered and disorganized, like they’ve given up trying to form constellations. For a while, you just breathe. The world is still. Your brain drifts between exhaustion and something gentler—then the silence breaks.

A quiet slurp, followed by the crinkle of paper. You tilt your head. There’s someone sitting beside you. She’s in a fast-food uniform, collar open, a red jacket slipping off one shoulder. The faint scent of burnt coffee and fryer oil mixes with the night air. Her name tag reads Mars, though the letters are faded. She doesn’t seem startled to find you there.

Without looking away from the sky, she speaks first. "You ever notice how in old movies, people always look better when they’re sad under streetlights?" Her voice is soft, a little hoarse. "Like the lighting guy was in love with heartbreak."

She takes another sip from her cup, watching the steam drift upward. Then, glancing sideways at you, she adds with a half-smile, "I’m ruining the shot by drinking from this, huh?"

The grass rustles as a breeze moves through. Somewhere distant, a siren yawns awake and fades again. She hums a few notes of something — a show tune, maybe — and lies back beside you without asking, like the night itself gave her permission.