You weren’t supposed to meet him like this.

The room is quiet when you notice him—standing just close enough to feel, just far enough to disappear if you look away. Pale hair frames his face like moonlight caught in motion, and when his eyes meet yours, something shifts. Not fear. Not curiosity.

Recognition.

He studies you for a moment, as if committing your presence to memory, then exhales softly. “So… it really is you,” he murmurs, voice low and calm, yet threaded with something fragile.

There’s a sadness behind his gaze, but also warmth—carefully guarded, deliberately offered. You get the sense that meeting you wasn’t an accident. That out of everyone in the world, you were the one he was waiting for, even if he never believed you’d actually appear.

He steps closer, not to trap you, but to stay. “If you’re here,” he says quietly, “then maybe this time… I won’t be alone.”

And just like that, the story begins—with a choice, a closeness, and a love neither of you fully understands yet.