It is a cool winter evening. The last rays of the sunset shine on her pale face and a feeling of hope fills her, because it seems as if spring is coming soon.
As she writes the last sentence in her diary, her attention is directed to a young man who has sat down on the bench next to her. He sounds like he has had a race for the block and is now taking a short breather on the bench.
“Are you all right?” She asks quietly.
She is intimidated by his strong stature.
He turns his head to look at her and pushes his tousled, caramel-colored hair back.
“I...”
He falls silent and looks away slightly.
“The question is rather whether everything is all right with you. What does a young girl like that do on a bench in an abandoned park so late in the evening?”
“What comes to mind talking to me like this?” She thinks.
Without hesitation, she replies: “You are friendly, you have to be given that. What I'm doing here is none of your business. You just sounded like you had a chase through the entire city center behind you. I wanted to be friendly and ask if everything was OK. Well, unfortunately, friendliness and helpfulness are of no importance nowadays, you are only focused on yourself and the worst–”
Before she can deliver her planned speech, he interrupts her: “You want to help me? Then make me a sandwich.”
He laughs quietly, but she doesn't find it amusing at all. What is this arrogant guy imagining?
“If you try to be funny, then I can assure you with certainty that you failed!” She replies angrily, amazed at his insolence.
“Naughty girl,” he says with a grin that makes him look much more childlike, almost sweet. Involuntarily she rolls her eyes.
He moves closer to her so that she can almost feel his arm and looks into her old notebook, which looks so shabby from all the writing.
He asks urgently: “What's in there?”
She quickly closes her book, opens her backpack, packs it up and gets up. She turns away from him. In front of her is the stone path that leads out of the park.
When she hears footsteps behind her, she doubles her pace. She turns and sees the stranger, who also speeds up his steps.
She is immediately panicked. The last reddish colors of the sunset have already disappeared from the sky. It's night.
She tries to escape, but to no avail. His strong hand grabs her by the back and her breath catches.
What does he want? She knows she shouldn't talk to strangers and give lectures on helpfulness.
“Here. You left your pen on the bench,” he gasps, holding out his hand.
“Thanks ... um.”
She doesn't know how to behave after running away from him in panic. He just wanted to help her with that. Embarrassing.
“Were you afraid when I ran after you?” He asks amused and puts his hands on his hips.
“Yes, what should I have thought when you ran after me in the dark?” She replies, laughing a little shyly. She moves one step closer to him to snap her pen.
“I'm sorry, I wasn't very kind to you earlier,” he murmurs sheepishly.
“Not very friendly?” She replies sharply, “you asked me to prepare a sandwich for you. It is arrogant and insolent!”
“I am sorry. I shouldn't have let my anger out on you by joking and being 'outrageous'. Forgive me, madam?”
He grins at her, holding out his hand in her direction. He doesn't give her time to answer his question, which is probably not serious, and presses her for the second time: “My name is Lucas and you?”
“You probably don't know the meaning of the term 'privacy'. First you look in my diary and now you want to know my name right away?”
“Aha,” he calls triumphantly, pointing a finger at her as if he had caught her in a crime, “a diary!”
She looks away and crosses her arms behind her back.
She is very reluctant to talk about it. She has been keeping a diary since she almost died in a car accident at the age of eleven. She started wrapping her thoughts and fears in letters. All letters are aimed at life. As a result, she has somewhat managed her fear and panic attacks. She could never imagine having someone read these letters. Because they contain their most intimate and personal thoughts, which they otherwise do not share with anyone. She doesn't trust anyone. She often feels that she is misunderstood by other people. Why bother when paper is more patient than people anyway?
“Hey, it's okay. I also keep a diary.”
“Really?”
“Yes No. But I think it's sweet that you do it.”
To change the subject, she also extends her hand to him: “My name is Dona.”
He smiles and apparently rejoices that she didn't ignore his question.
“Dona?” He repeats, making a face.
“This name reminds me of an old grandma ...”
She sighs audibly.
“Or no, wait! To a duck ... Donald Duck!”
She rolls her eyes for the umpteenth time that evening.
“You like to annoy other people, don't you?”
“Only girls who are so sweet and energetic and want to get away or give you a lecture on humanity.”
She raises an eyebrow and asks confused: “Why shouldn't I run away from a stranger? Or even talk to someone who is so rude?”
He glances at her and seems to want to reply something, but then thinks better of it. When she thinks of his name, she remembers that one of her father's work colleagues has a son with the same name. The age also fits.
“Your name is Lucas? Could it be that you happen to be called Lucas Schmied?” She asks.
“Yes, how do you know that?” He asks perplexed.
A small wrinkle forms on his forehead.
She smiles and tries to appear mysterious: “I know everything about you.”
She tries to be funny and easy going. Apparently, she is constantly suffering from a nervous state of anxiety caused by her parents' strict upbringing.
“Oh reallys? So what colors are my socks?”
A sneer grins around his lips.
“Black!" She replies in a tone of conviction. He laughs warmly and she agrees with his laugh.
“Our fathers work together. Your father was there for dinner recently.”
He seems to think for a moment. He leads the long, lean fingers to his chin and strokes his light beard. His attitude is very casual and refreshing. And personable.
Even if he annoys her with his sayings, there is something about him that does not get her crazy. His eyes meet hers and for the first time she looks him straight in the eyes in his dark brown, warm eyes.
His face is illuminated by the street lamp. Her stomach flutters when he smiles at her again. The smile radiates so much zest for life that he infects her with it.
“Aha, you are the nice Albanian family who recently moved in here?” He says, eyeing them.
He is waiting for an answer. She says yes, looks at the clock and notices the late time. She remembers that she told her parents that she would be home by 7:00 p.m.
Now it is twenty minutes late and the darkness has completely covered the sky.
Since her father does not like unpunctuality and “excuses” at all, she quickly adds: “I have to go now! I should be at home already.”
He notices the panic in her voice and nods.
“Shouldn't I rather go with you? It's already very dark, and ...”
His face takes on a reddish color, which she finds pretty cute.
“You're not kidnapping me?” A short giggle escapes her.
“No, no ... Okay, maybe,” he says, winking at her. She has to smile involuntarily and he smiles with him. His smile is frank and warm, almost childish, but in a very engaging way.
Since winter has taken all the foliage, it can see the road behind through the gaps between the fences.
“Are you here often?” He asks after walking for a while.
She can't believe she's walking the streets with a stranger. What if she meets a relative? And did your parents find out about this encounter? It would be delivered.
A feeling of fear overwhelms her and she tries to keep a certain distance from him so that in the worst case she can claim that he is just a passerby who was on the way.
“I am very often here in the park to write in peace. To take some time off from people,” she explains with a nervous undertone. She then asks him the same thing. He tells her that he is here because he likes nature and enjoys the peace.
“But before that it didn't look as if you had enjoyed nature in peace. Did you run away from something?” She notes carefully.
He is silent for a moment and finally replies: “I had an argument with a good friend.”
His voice sounds neutral, but there is something in his tone to signal that further questions in this direction are undesirable.

She is silent and looks at her fingers. You didn't notice how cold it was. Her fingers have gone numb and blue from the cold.
She likes winter. It feels so unpredictable, so powerful. Like an ice queen that can only be defeated by spring.