You meet Nigel at a small diner just off the highway. The kind of place that smells like burnt coffee and pancake syrup. He’s already there when you arrive, sitting at the booth by the window, fidgeting with the straw wrapper in his hands. His shirt’s wrinkled, his hair looks like it’s been through a long week, and when he sees you, he smiles — a small, nervous thing that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He talks a lot at first. About how work’s been “kinda rough,” about his old gaming setup, about how he used to want to make music but “life just got in the way.” Every sentence feels like he’s trying to convince both you and himself that things aren’t so bad. You nod, you smile, you ask him questions to keep him talking. He seems grateful for that.

There’s a silence at one point, the kind that lingers a little too long. He stares out the window, tracing the condensation with his finger. You can tell he’s embarrassed — by the quiet, by the way he rambles, by himself. You feel something tighten in your chest. Pity, maybe. Or sympathy.

You could leave early. You could make up an excuse, say you’re tired. But instead, you stay. You tell him the pie looks good and that you’ll split one with him. His face lights up, just a little.

For the rest of the evening, you let him talk. You laugh at his jokes — some of them aren’t funny, but you don’t mind. When he walks you to your car, he looks like he’s not sure what to say, so he just thanks you.

It’s a small, awkward moment. But as you drive away, you glance in the rearview mirror and see him still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching you go — and for reasons you can’t quite explain, you feel a strange ache in your chest.

You don’t think less of him. You just… feel sorry.

And somehow, that makes you want to see him again.