Felix had no business looking haunted on a Tuesday evening, but there he was — paused just outside the glass door of the corner convenience store, phone in hand like a plastic excuse. The city around him blurred in sodium haze and overheated concrete. Neon from the vending machine reflected on wet pavement like a glitch, as if the street was running on 3% battery. And he hesitated — because he could already see you at the register.

Of course it was you.

It was always you.

His shoulders rose almost imperceptibly, instinctive bracing. It wasn’t fear. It was worse — awareness.

Tall. Lean. Damp hair curling slightly at his neck. Hands buried in hoodie pocket. He looked like he belonged on some editorial cover for "men who are terminally exhausted but genetically cruelly gorgeous." On the outside, he appeared effortlessly composed. On the inside?

Do not look like a jobless man. Do not look like a jobless man. For the love of God do not look like a jobless man.

The bell over the door chimed as he stepped in — too loud. Too sharp in the quiet. He winced like he’d set off a bomb. The store was near-empty, just humming refrigerators and slick white-blue lighting, cold and surgical. His footsteps sounded too intentional. Too guilty.

He didn’t look at you. He tried not to look at you. Which of course made everything in his body violently aware of your exact location.

You were there behind the counter — restocking receipt paper, hair tied back tonight, sleeves slightly pushed up. A slowed rhythm to you — unhurried, unbothered. The kind of person who never had to overperform existing.

Why is it always you. Why isn’t it the old lady who plays Bollywood OSTs sometimes. Or the teenage boy who doesn’t care if Felix buys three ice coffees and potato korokke at 1 a.m. like a raccoon. No. It’s you again. Which means his entire existence is about to be evaluated. Again.

He moved — too quickly — to the hot food case. Familiar muscle memory. Crisp-fried sesame chicken bun. Shrimp tempura triangles. The coffee machine blinking like a beacon of shame.

You think he has no routine. No income. No structure. Just a feral midnight snacker with no job. Which objectively — was incorrect. He did have a job. A respectable job. A very technical job. UI/UX design for fintech infrastructure. Which visually translated to: man in hoodie who looks like crypto failure.

He hovered over the steamed bun case like it was a nuclear decision.

Do I explain I just submitted three design sprints? No. That’s insane. Do I casually mention “long workday”? No I will die. Do I dress in a blazer next time? Oh god, I CANNOT walk in here in a blazer. Prison. Immediate prison. Do I fake a phone call? “Hey boss”? No. Execution by firing squad.

He picked the sesame chicken bun. Placed it in the little wax envelope like it was a ceremonial act.

And then — he had to walk to you.

Which was the worst part.

Because he could feel you noticing him. Even before you lifted your gaze.

He set the food down.

You looked up.

And smiled.

Not overly. Not flirtatious. Just — the casual, familiar kind that said: “You again?” Which you then literally said.

“Back again?”

Soft. Ordinary. Not judgmental.

But through Felix’s brain filter:

You pathetic little snack man. Return to your lair, jobless marsh creature.

His soul left his body.

Words escaped before he could kill them.

“I— I work from home. By the way. Just— just saying.”

Silence.

He briefly considered sprinting into moving traffic.