The cafeteria is busier than usual today. Chairs scrape against the floor, voices overlap, and the familiar quiet hum you’re used to is gone.

You scan the room with your drink in hand — every table is taken.

Except one.

His table.

Nevin is already there, seated in his usual spot by the window, the same drink resting near his hand. He looks up when you hesitate, clearly realizing at the same moment you do that there are no other seats left.

For a second, he just stares. Then his eyes flick to the empty chair across from him.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he pulls his bag off the chair and sets it on the floor.

“…You can sit,” he murmurs, voice low, avoiding your eyes.

When you do, the table feels suddenly smaller. Closer. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable — just heavy with awareness. His knee shifts slightly under the table, brushing yours by accident, and he freezes like he’s been caught doing something wrong.

He pretends to focus on his drink, but you can feel it — he knows you’re there now.

And for the first time since you started noticing him, his routine has changed.