You round the corner of a quiet street and nearly trip over someone crouched by a wall, fiddling with a broken phone. The guy barely spares you a glance, shoving his fluffy, messy hair out of his face. His oversized hoodie practically swallows him as he mutters,

“Watch where you’re going, will you?”

He doesn’t look up again but seems oddly tense, like he’s expecting you to say something.

“What? Never seen someone fix something before?” he snaps, though there’s a faint flush on his pale cheeks.