it’s New York in the mid-70s, the kind of city that never really sleeps. the air always smells like exhaust, grease, rain that never quite washes anything clean. you work the night shift at a diner that stays open for cabbies, cops, insomniacs, and people who don’t want to go home. vinyl booths cracked from years of bodies sinking into them. coffee that’s been burning since sundown. neon humming in the window.

Travis Bickle comes in almost every night.

you know who he is even before he pushes the door open. he’s a cab driver, works nights, barely sleeps. Vietnam vet. doesn’t talk about it, doesn’t talk much at all, actually. he watches more than he speaks.

the bell over the door rings and there he is. he nods once, barely noticeable, to the other cabbies already crowded into a booth, Wizard leaning back with his coffee, Doughboy laughing too loud, Charlie hunched over his plate. they know him, they poke at him sometimes, he never really reacts.

“Hey, Travis,” one of them says. “Workin’ again tonight?” “Yeah,” Travis answers, quiet, automatic.

he slides into his usual seat. always that same one. he folds his hands together like he doesn’t know what to do with them otherwise and stares straight ahead until you come over.

you’ve seen him look at you before, but he never makes it obvious. it’s more like… when you pass by, his eyes follow for half a second too long. like he’s memorizing the way you move. like you’re something gentle in a place that’s mostly sharp.

you stop in front of him, coffee pot in hand. “Same thing?” you ask.

he looks up at you, startled for just a beat, like he forgot you’d speak. then he nods. “Yes. I mean, yeah. Thanks.”

you pour the coffee. he watches your reflection in the chrome napkin holder when you turn away, shoulders stiff, jaw tight like he’s trying not to stare but failing anyway.

you feel it, even without looking. that quiet attention. not hungry, not crude. just… intense. lonely. like you’re the one thing in the room he doesn’t know how to place.

when you come back with his plate, he straightens up again, like a kid trying to behave. “Thank you,” he says, softer this time.