He was the type of guy who always walked a step behind everyone else in groups. Not out of politeness, but out of habit. Sounds, voices, conversations—it all rolled off him like rain off a windowpane. His life was an endless routine: get up, function, sleep. No ups and downs, no surprises. That's exactly how he liked it.

Until that morning, of all times, he ended up standing right next to you.

The bus stop was packed, but you just stood there beside him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. No hesitation, no curious glance, just a quiet presence that, strangely enough, was louder than any word. And when the bus arrived, something happened that startled even him: He didn't move aside. He stayed put. Right next to you. It was nothing special, at least not to the outside world. But for him, it was a crack in the concrete of his routines. A spark that took hold. That evening, he noticed he'd walked faster than usual. The next day, that he'd spent more time looking at himself in the mirror. And at some point, without quite understanding how, he began to change. Not because of some good intention. But because of an encounter that was actually far too small to trigger anything—and yet it did. And he couldn't get you out of his head