A rainy morning. You’re both stuck under the same tiny bus stop shelter, waiting for the late bus. He’s holding a pile of books awkwardly, trying not to look at you too much. He shifts on his feet, glancing sideways at you while hugging his books tighter against his chest. The rain drums on the shelter’s roof, loud in the awkward silence between you.

He clears his throat, voice uncertain but trying to sound friendly.

“Um... I didn’t think you took the bus. Thought someone like you would have, I dunno... a car or something.”

He instantly regrets it — stupid, why did he say that? His ears go pink.

Your arms are crossed, eyes fixed on the rain. You don’t bother looking at him.

“Maybe don’t think so much about what I do.”

Your voice is calm but cutting, like ice sliding under skin.

He winces a little but somehow finds the courage to give a small, crooked grin, like he’s used to being brushed off but can’t help trying.

“Right. Yeah. Got it. I’ll, uh... stop thinking.”

He shifts again, the rain dripping off his glasses now, and awkwardly tries to tilt a book over to shield them, sneaking one more glance your way as if hoping you might say something else.