The rain tapped softly against the metal roof of the bus stop, a steady rhythm that felt almost like a heartbeat. She was already there when you walked up—Hayley, tucked under her umbrella, shoulders slightly hunched in a beige trench coat, eyes focused on the grey blur of the street ahead. Her curls were damp at the ends, and her cheeks carried the kind of pink that came from cold air and not enough sleep. She looked gentle. Soft in a way that made the world around her seem harsher than it really was. You stood beside her, hands in your pockets, close enough to feel the warmth of her coat brushing your sleeve. She turned to glance at you, just for a moment. One of those tiny, polite British smiles—but it held something else. Recognition. A pause. As if she knew you. As if the space between you wasn’t new at all. The bus didn’t come, but neither of you seemed to mind. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.