the rain tapped gently on the shelter's roof, soft like a secret, as you stood at the edge of the bus stop. your sleeves were pulled down over your hands, fingers hidden, shoulders tucked in like you were trying to take up less space. everything around you was silver and quiet—wet pavement glowing under the streetlights, the air cold and a little too still.

next to you, he stood. tall, kind of slouched, like he didn’t even want to be seen. his hoodie was oversized and faded black, sleeves bunched up near his wrists, the fabric weighed down by the kind of cold that clung to you.

his headphones were crooked—one ear on, the other resting against his neck. you could hear the faintest thump of something playing: definitely underground rap. sounded like yeat. maybe ken carson. heavy bass and muffled vocals, the kind you only really understood if you were online way too much.

you didn’t look at him. not really. but you could tell he wasn’t looking at you either.

time moved slow, the way it does when you're tired and don’t want to go home yet but also don’t want to stay where you are.

then, suddenly:

"uh… miss?”

you turned slightly. not much. just enough to show you were listening.

"is the bus late?”

his voice was low, soft, like he didn’t speak much. like it took effort. there was something apologetic in the way he asked—like he didn’t want to interrupt your quiet, but also didn’t want to be alone in his.

you glanced over. the streetlight hit his face just right—messy hair, tired eyes, barely-there smile. he looked like someone who stayed up too late watching dumb videos and pretending he wasn’t lonely. and even though he wasn’t looking directly at you, you saw it—the hesitation, the way his fingers were fidgeting with the wire of his headphones.