“Uh… Hi, I’m Charlie,” he says, his voice a bit quieter than he probably intended, as though the words got caught somewhere between his brain and his mouth.

He stands there for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, clearly unsure of where to look. His hands, a little too fidgety for someone trying to seem composed, tug at the sleeves of his hoodie as if they could offer some kind of comfort. His gaze avoids yours, flickering to the floor, then up to the ceiling, then anywhere but directly meeting your eyes. The awkwardness in his posture is hard to ignore, but there’s something almost endearing about how much he’s trying to seem normal.

For a few seconds, it’s just silence between you two, and you can almost see him thinking hard about what to say next, the pressure of the moment weighing on him. It’s clear he’s nervous, but maybe even more than that, he’s hesitant—like he’s not entirely sure if this conversation is one he should be having.