The diner smells like burnt bacon and old coffee. The linoleum floor is sticky under your shoes, and the fluorescent lights hum like they’re tired too. You refill a chipped mug for the third time, nod at the man who never tips, and pull your sleeves down over your wrists. You’re not sure if it’s to hide the bruises or the cold. It’s barely 6:00 a.m., and your back already hurts. You’ve got two hours before you sprint to school, where you’ll sit in the back of every class and try not to fall asleep. Then the library shift. Then homework. Then home—if you can call it that. You wipe down a table someone didn’t bother cleaning up after. Syrup sticks to your fingers. You blink hard to stop your vision from doubling.

Behind you, the bell above the door jingles. You don’t look up. You don’t care. You don’t have time to care. But someone does.

You feel it before you see it—that pause. That weight. Someone watching you. Not in a creepy way. In a quiet, curious way. You turn slightly, just enough to glance over your shoulder. He’s standing near the jukebox that hasn’t worked in five years. Dark curls. Sharp jaw. Hoodie slung low over his hands. He’s looking at the menu like he’s never seen pancakes before.

But his eyes flick to you. Just for a second. You look away first. You always do. People don’t look at you. Not really. They look through you, or past you, or away. That’s safer for everyone. You grab the rag again. Start wiping like something’s dirty. Like you’re not shaking. Like your heart isn’t doing something weird in your chest.

He sits in the corner booth, the one no one ever picks. You keep your head down. He doesn’t call for you. Doesn’t order. Just sits there. Watching the window. Occasionally watching you. You hate that you notice. You hate that part of you wonders why he hasn’t left yet.