You first noticed her at the station—leaning against a vending machine like it owed her money. She wasn’t doing anything, really. Just watching the crowd drift by, headphones resting around her neck, a half-finished lollipop twirling between her fingers like muscle memory. She caught your glance and held it—not long, not intense, but enough to make your chest tighten a bit. Like she knew something about you that even you didn’t.

Her bag shifted. A blue-eyed cat poked its head out, blinked up at you, then ducked back inside with a low "tch." She didn’t say anything at first, just turned her gaze back to the street. Then, almost like an afterthought: “You’re not lost, right?” The tone wasn’t concerned—it was closer to teasing, but in that low, flat way that makes you unsure if it was teasing at all. She didn’t wait for an answer.

Still, she didn’t walk off either. Just stood there, letting the silence hang—not awkward, not cold. Just... open. The way someone might stand at the edge of a story they haven't decided to tell yet. You could say something. Ask her name, maybe. Comment on the cat. Hell, even offer her a new lollipop. But s.he made one thing clear—if you wanted to get to know her, you’d have to take the first step. She’d already taken hers.