Central Park Collision

I stepped off the plane at JFK, and bam—New York City hit me like a tidal wave. The air was thick with that mix of exhaust fumes, hot pretzels from some vendor cart, and just… people. So many people rushing everywhere, yelling into their phones in a dozen languages. I’d been dreaming about this for months—NYU, art history scholarship, a whole semester in the Big Apple. Paris is chaotic in its own elegant way, but this? This was raw, unfiltered energy. I loved it already. “C’est incroyable,” I muttered to myself, grinning like an idiot as I hauled my suitcase through the terminal.

By the time I got to my dorm near Washington Square, I was wiped. Jet lag was kicking in hard, but no way was I crashing yet. Bella, my new roommate—she’s this bubbly Italian-American girl I’d chatted with online—had already texted me a million times. “Get your cute French butt over here! We’re going out tonight!” But first, I needed to breathe. Unpack a little, maybe. The room was tiny, like a shoebox, but it had this killer view of the park across the street. I dumped my bags, grabbed my sketchbook and pencils, and headed out. Central Park was calling my name. I’d seen it in so many movies—romantic strolls, hot dog stands, that iconic skyline peeking through the trees. Time to make it real.

The walk over was a blur of yellow cabs honking, street performers juggling, and tourists snapping selfies. I weaved through the crowds, my curly hair probably a mess from the humidity—thanks, New York summer. But hey, I felt alive. Outgoing me was in full swing; I even stopped to chat with a guy selling roasted nuts. “First time here?” he asked, eyeing my accent. “Oui, just arrived from Paris!” I beamed, buying a bag even though I wasn’t hungry. That’s me—always making friends, always diving in headfirst. Sophie, my big sister back home, would roll her eyes. “Ethan, you’re too trusting. The world isn’t all croissants and smiles.” But come on, life’s too short not to embrace it.

Finally, I hit the park. Oh man, it was everything. Green lawns stretching out, joggers pounding the paths, kids chasing pigeons. I found a quiet bench under a massive oak tree, the kind that looks like it’s been there since forever. The sun filtered through the leaves, casting these dappled shadows that begged to be sketched. I flipped open my book, sharpened a pencil, and started drawing—the Bethesda Fountain in the distance, with its angel statue looking all majestic. My lines flowed easy, loose, capturing the curve of the water, the people milling around. Art’s my escape, you know? Back in Paris, growing up in our cramped apartment with Mom working two jobs, I’d lose hours in museums, dreaming of creating something beautiful. NYU was my ticket to that world.

I was deep into shading when it happened. Some guy—tall, built like a wall—brushed past me way too close. My pencil skidded across the page, leaving a ugly streak right through the fountain. “Hey!” I yelped, looking up. And then… whoa.

He stopped, turning those ice-blue eyes on me. Sharp features, like he was carved from marble—high cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass. Dark hair tousled, like he’d run his hands through it a million times. He was older, maybe late twenties, dressed in a black leather jacket that screamed “don’t mess with me,” even in the heat. But it was the stare that got me. Intense, piercing, like he was sizing me up and finding me… lacking? Scornful, almost. My stomach twisted. I’ve dealt with guys like that before—strong personalities who make you feel small. Reminded me too much of my ex, Julien, back in Paris. That relationship had started with charm and ended with bruises, both the kind you see and the ones you don’t. I’d sworn off that vibe.

“Sorry,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, with a hint of an accent—Russian? Eastern European, anyway. But he didn’t move. Just kept staring, like I was some puzzle he couldn’t figure out.

I forced a smile—outgoing Ethan to the rescue. “No problem! Just, uh, watch where you’re going next time, yeah? This city’s crazy enough without accidental collisions.” I laughed, trying to lighten it, but it came out awkward. My French accent probably made me sound like a total tourist.

He didn’t laugh back. Just nodded once, those eyes lingering a second too long. Was he checking me out? No, couldn’t be. Guys like him—straight, brooding types—don’t look at guys like me that way. Or if they do, it’s usually trouble. He turned and walked off, broad shoulders cutting through the crowd like a shark through water. I watched him go, feeling this weird mix of unsettled and… intrigued? “Qu’est-ce que c’était ça?” I whispered, shaking my head.

I tried to fix the sketch, but my hand was shaky now. The park didn’t feel as welcoming anymore. That stare—it wasn’t just scorn, was it? There was something else there, buried deep. Vulnerability? Nah, I was projecting. That’s my thing—seeing the good in people, even when it’s not there. Sophie would say I’m naive. Bella would probably tease me about crushing on a stranger already.

By the time I packed up and headed back, the sun was dipping lower, painting the sky in oranges and pinks. NYC was still buzzing, but now it felt a tad overwhelming. I texted Bella: “Just got back from the park. Met a mysterious stranger—total movie moment! Drinks later?” Her reply was instant: “OMG yes! Spill everything!”

I chuckled, but inside, that encounter lingered. Who was he? Why did he look at me like that? Probably nothing. Just a random bump in a city of millions. But as I dodged a group of skateboarders on the sidewalk, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just stepped into something bigger than a simple sketch session. Little did I know, right?