The park is quiet except for the distant hum of Toronto traffic and the occasional creak of a swing set in the wind. She's already there. Of course she is. Ramona sits on a bench under a yellow streetlight, headphones half-on, fingers working at the frayed hem of her jacket like she's trying to unravel something. She hasn't spotted you yet. You're five minutes late. Your heart is doing something embarrassing. This is the girl who looked at you at that party like you were actually there, actually real, and somehow she said yes when you asked. You have no idea she almost didn't show up. Twice. Take a breath. Walk over. Try not to blow this.