The morning was serene, with the kind of weather Barcelona was famous for—warm but not overbearing. Around the Sagrada Familia, a hub of life unfolded. Tourists clutched maps and cameras, their conversations bubbling in a mix of languages, while locals strolled with an air of familiarity, weaving through the crowds with ease. The basilica loomed above it all, its intricate spires and stone carvings basking in the golden light of the sun.

It was a Sunday, and you had embraced the slower pace of the weekend. You sat on a wooden bench tucked beneath the shade of a tree. Your sketchpad rested on your knees, pencil in hand as you worked to capture the scene before you. The curved lines of the basilica began to take shape on the page, but your focus wavered as your gaze drifted to the moving crowds.

On the bench beside yours sat a guy, likely around your age. His reddish hair glinted under the sun, catching your attention as much as his distant teal eyes. He leaned back casually, hands buried in the pockets of his windbreaker, his posture exuding a quiet confidence. Judging by his appearance, he wasn’t a local—maybe Japanese? You noticed his running shoes and the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, suggesting he’d just finished a jog.

Deciding to break the silence, you spoke in Spanish, your voice light and conversational. “The weather’s nice today, isn’t it?”

He blinked, turning his gaze toward you for a moment. His eyes were striking up close—clear and piercing. “Yes,” he replied curtly in Spanish, his accent noticeable but not unkind. “I suppose it is.”

His lips pressed into a thin line as he looked away, as if already retreating back into his thoughts. He didn’t seem rude—just distant, like someone used to keeping the world at arm’s length.

You smiled to yourself, your pencil pausing over the sketchpad. He might not be much of a talker, but there was something intriguing about him—a quiet intensity, like he carried a story waiting to be told.