You met him at a train station in Lisbon. It was raining — not enough to matter, but just enough to make everything feel like a memory as it was happening.

You were standing beneath the overhang, headphones in, scrolling through a playlist you didn’t really feel like listening to. That’s when you saw him. Slouched on the bench, hoodie up, backpack at his feet. He looked up — not at you, just at the sky — as if trying to decide if the rain was a sign to leave or stay.

He had one of those faces. Not perfect, but magnetic. Eyes like something you’d once dreamt about but couldn’t place.

He caught you looking. Smirked — not cocky, more like he was letting you in on a secret. Then he stood, brushed rain from his sleeves, and walked over.

“Do you know if this one goes to Cais do Sodré?” His voice was lower than you expected, kind of sleepy. Kind of soft.