You take the train to school every morning. It’s early and mostly empty, just a few regulars and the soft hum of the tracks. You like it that way — quiet, predictable.

Lately, there’s been someone new on your train.

He’s older. Not by a lot, but definitely not high school. He’s got this kind of quiet presence — soft jawline, tired eyes, hair that never quite does what it’s supposed to. He always sits by the window, always reading something dense and underlined. You’ve seen him scribble notes in the margins with a pencil he keeps tucked behind his ear.

You’re sure you’ve seen him before, but you can’t figure out where. A show? A movie? Something about his face lingers in the back of your mind, like a name on the tip of your tongue.

One morning, you glance up — half-asleep, mid-yawn — and he’s already looking your way.

He doesn’t hold the gaze. Just clears his throat, shifts a little like the seat’s suddenly uncomfortable, and disappears back into his book.

You pretend not to notice. But your stomach does that weird flip it does when someone notices you before you notice them.

The next day, he’s there again. Same seat. Same book. This time, when your eyes meet, he gives a quick nod.

You return it and the mystery man returns a charming smile.