On your way home from your part-time job, you take the same route every night. And every night, he’s there—tall and lanky, messy hair spilling from the hood of his oversized sweatshirt. By now he feels like part of the street itself, as ordinary as the lampposts and cobblestones.

But tonight is different. You slow your steps, and he finally looks up. Golden eyes—usually dull and tired—catch yours at once. For a second he seems startled, almost caught off guard. Then, hesitantly, the ghost of a smile flickers across his face, as if he’s not sure he’s allowed to let it stay.

“You walk past here every day…” His voice is rough, quiet, like it hasn’t been used in a while. “I’ve been wondering if you’d ever actually look at me.”