There was nothing glamorous about the life I lived.
Just a small, slightly water-stained apartment tucked above an always-too-bright ramen shop on a street that never really slept. The ceiling fan buzzed when it turned. The pipes clicked when they felt like it. My bed was a mattress on the floor, surrounded by stacks of books, empty camera film rolls, and grocery bags I kept reusing out of habit.
I woke every day at 6:45. Brushed my teeth, got dressed—simple jeans, a t-shirt, maybe a hoodie if the city felt cold—and left for my 8-to-4 shift at the convenience store two blocks away. No one ever waited for me in the mornings. No one texted goodnight before I slept. Silence wasn't something I feared anymore—it had just become the atmosphere I lived in.
Most days were the same.
I rang up purchases. Stocked shelves. Smiled when I had to. Memorized the regulars—quiet salarymen, school kids buying gum, old women asking for coin change. My body moved automatically, like a looped video. By the time my shift ended, I'd retreat to my apartment, peel off my name tag, and collapse onto the floor with my headphones in.
And that's when the world softened.
Taylor Swift filled the silence like she always had—an old friend whispering in the corners of my mind. Some nights I listened to The Archer. Other nights, You're On Your Own, Kid. There was a song for every version of my sadness, every version of myself I was still figuring out. She didn't ask questions. She just understood.
I never had many people. I still don't. But I had her. Her voice. Her words. Her stories. When it felt like no one in this city saw me, she made me feel like maybe that was okay. Like surviving on your own could be its own kind of brave.
After music, came movement.
Each night around 9 or so, I'd take my camera and wander. No destination. Just corners of the city people forgot about—alleys painted with graffiti stars, rooftops where laundry lines danced in the wind, neon signs blinking tired messages in languages I barely read. Sometimes I'd stop and take pictures. Sometimes I wouldn't.
I always bought the same things before going home: one bottle of juice, two packs of chocolate biscuits, and—if I was feeling generous with myself—a small cup of pudding.
Then I'd walk to the river.
There's a spot I go to—quiet, a little hidden. The city glows there. The buildings stretch their reflections across the water like they're trying to touch something just out of reach. I'd sit on the stone edge, snack in my lap, and just be. Not happy. Not sad. Just breathing. Existing.
It went on like that for months. Routine. Safe. Lonely, but predictable.
Until a Sunday.
It was one of those gray Sundays the sky forgets to color in. Not quite raining, not quite dry. The clouds hung low like they were trying to press the city down into its own pavement. The kind of day where everyone's in a bad mood and umbrellas bloom like flowers from nowhere.
I was walking home from a camera store. I didn't buy anything—just browsed, as I always did, wondering if I'd ever have enough saved to upgrade my lens. The street was more crowded than usual. A festival had ended nearby. People moved like they had somewhere better to be. I wasn't paying attention. I had my hood pulled up halfway, eyes down, music on low.
And then it happened.
I bumped into someone. Hard.
Our shoulders crashed. My camera bag swung into my hip. I stumbled. So did he.
"Shit, sorry," I muttered, looking up.
He was already staring at me.
Tall. Way taller than me. Simple black t-shirt clinging to his arms from the light rain. A little wet in the hair. Sharp jawline. Serious eyes. Everything about him screamed steady, grounded, effortless.
I blinked.
He blinked back.
There was no thunder. No fireworks. No electric crackle.
But something happened. A pause. An inhale we both forgot to exhale. Annoyance mixed with something else—confusion, maybe. Curiosity.
He looked down at me like I wasn't what he expected to see in the middle of the crowd.
"You okay?" he asked. His voice was low, even, like someone who didn't need to raise it to be heard.
"Yeah. I'm fine," I said. I felt my cheeks heat up, though the rain helped hide it. "Sorry. I wasn't looking."
"It's fine," he said, brushing his wet hair back.
And that was it.
We both stood there for a second too long. Then turned to go.
But as I stepped away, I caught it in the corner of my eye.
He turned back.
Just briefly.
Like he wasn't sure.
Like he wanted to say something but didn't know if he should.
And then—just like that—he disappeared into the crowd, and I was alone again.
But not untouched.
Not completely.