The next morning, London woke up restless.
Cars honked impatiently outside my apartment window, bicycles zipped past each other too closely, and the grey clouds hung low, threatening another day of stubborn rain. I stood in my tiny kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. The hiss of steam filled the room, but it wasn't loud enough to drown out the memory of last night.
You're soaked… You should stand under this.
That voice — calm, warm, strangely steady — kept replaying in my mind even when I tried to ignore it. I had met dozens of strangers in this city. People brushed past you all the time, looked through you, never at you. But his eyes… they didn't look through me.
They saw something.
And I hated how much that unsettled me.
I slipped on my coat, grabbed my bag, and forced myself out into the cold air. The streets glistened with leftover rain, and puddles reflected the pale morning sky. As I walked toward the train station, I tried to convince myself that last night was just a momentary encounter — something meaningless, something forgettable.
But some moments didn't disappear easily.
Not when someone looks at you like they understand.
Not when you wish, even a little, that you had stayed.
The station was unusually crowded, people shuffling past each other with tired eyes and half-finished coffees. I squeezed into the train just before the doors closed, and the movement pushed me too close to a couple standing near the pole. The girl leaned into the guy, laughing quietly about something he whispered.
My chest tightened.
Not because I wanted that.
But because I had once believed in it.
I looked away quickly, fixing my gaze on the blurry advertisements above their heads. My reflection in the window looked pale, tired, distant — the usual. I shifted slightly, adjusting my bag on my shoulder.
And that's when I felt it.
A presence.
Not close, not intrusive — just… familiar.
My heart paused without my permission.
Slowly, cautiously, I glanced to my left.
He was standing three feet away, one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other loosely gripping the hanging strap above him. Dark hair slightly damp from the morning mist. Grey hoodie. Black jacket layered over it. Calm posture. Quiet energy.
Umbrella guy.
My breath caught.
He didn't seem to notice me at first — or maybe he did, but pretended not to. His eyes stayed lowered, following the rhythm of the train floor shifting beneath us. People swayed with every turn, but he stood so effortlessly balanced, like he belonged in this chaos.
I forced myself to look forward, staring at nothing, pretending he wasn't there. My pulse hammered silently beneath my coat.
You're overreacting, Ariana.
He's just a guy.
Just a stranger.
A stranger who saw too much.
The train slowed for the next stop. More people squeezed in, pushing the rest of us closer together. Someone bumped into me from behind, and I stumbled slightly — right into the direction I didn't want to go.
A warm hand steadied my arm.
Just for a second.
Just enough to stop the fall.
My breath hitched sharply. I looked up, startled.
His hand withdrew instantly, as if he knew touching me might break something delicate.
"Sorry," he murmured, eyes meeting mine for the first time that morning. "Didn't want you to
His voice was exactly as I remembered — warm, even, careful. Like he was speaking through water.
"It's fine," I replied quickly, brushing my coat as if the gesture erased the moment. "Thanks."
He gave a small nod, the kind that held neither expectation nor assumption. And then he looked back ahead, giving me space again.
But the space didn't matter.
Because my heart wasn't listening.
The train continued its clattering journey through tunnels and short glimpses of the city. I kept my eyes forward, but my awareness stayed tethered to him, like a quiet string I never asked for.
When we reached the central station, half the passengers stepped off — including him. I followed, not because of him, but because it was my usual stop. At least… that's what I told myself.
We walked in the same direction for a while, carried by the morning river of commuters. I stayed a few paces behind, close enough to observe him without appearing like I was following.
He walked with a slow steadiness, not rushed like the others. Even in the crowd, there was a softness to the way he moved — hands in pockets, head slightly tilted as if listening to something only he could hear.
He didn't turn around. He didn't look back.
And yet…
When we reached the street where people branched off into different directions, he paused under a shop's awning and turned slightly — not fully, just enough to glance behind him.
His eyes found mine almost immediately.
My chest tightened.
He wasn't smiling. He wasn't startled. He wasn't awkward.
He simply acknowledged me, like he expected me to be there.
Rain began to fall again — soft, steady, London's favorite soundtrack. He unfolded the same black umbrella from last night, then hesitated for a brief moment.
Not an inviting look. Not a question.
Just hesitation.
Then he continued walking.
I arrived at work ten minutes late, soaked and unusually distracted. My boss barely noticed; she was already buried in paperwork, frustrated with the printer. I slipped into my desk, trying to shake off the lingering connection that clung to me like humidity.
But my mind kept wandering.
His eyes at the bus stop. His voice on the train. The way he steadying my arm like it was the most natural thing.
Why did it matter?
Why did he matter?
I spent the morning answering emails, sorting files, and pretending my thoughts weren't spiraling.
During lunch, while sitting alone on a bench behind the office building, I replayed everything again — every glance, every word, every unexpected softness. I pulled my knees close and rested my chin on them.
"It was just a stranger," I whispered to myself.
But the words didn't feel true.
Strangers didn't look at you like they understood your pain.
Strangers didn't linger in your mind long after they walked away.
Strangers didn't make your heart ache with something that felt dangerously close to longing.
On my way home after work, the rain had strengthened, tapping rhythmically against rooftops and forming streams along the pavement. The streets glowed with reflections of streetlights, turning the city into a blurred watercolor painting.
I stood at the bus stop again — the same one as last night.
Same city.
Same rain.
Same loneliness.
Different ache.
The ache of someone who didn't want to feel anything but accidentally did.
A car splashed through a puddle nearby, droplets hitting the edge of my coat. I pushed damp hair away from my face.
Then I felt it — that quiet shift in the air. A presence behind me. Familiar. Calm.
I didn't turn around at first.
But then a black umbrella extended gently over my head.
My breath froze.
Slowly, I looked to my left.
He stood beside me, a respectful distance away, holding the umbrella so it covered just enough of me — not too close, not too assuming.
"You shouldn't keep standing in the rain," he said softly.
My voice felt stuck for a moment. "You again."
His lips tugged slightly upward, not quite a smile. "London isn't that big."
"It really is," I murmured.
He shrugged lightly. "Maybe we're just walking similar paths."
I didn't know what to say to that. I didn't trust the warmth curling into my chest.
"You don't have to do this," I whispered. "The umbrella thing."
"I know."
"Then why?"
He looked at me properly this time — really looked, the way he had at the bus stop. His eyes were warm, gentle, and painfully understanding.
"Because it looked like you needed someone to share the rain with."
My heart cracked.
A small, fragile, dangerous crack.
"I don't want… anything," I said quietly. "Not connection. Not help. Nothing."
"I'm not offering anything," he replied calmly. "Just shade."
The simplest things broke me the fastest.
My throat tightened.
"What's your name?" I whispered before I could stop myself.
He hesitated for half a second — enough to show he wasn't the overly forward type.
"Liam," he said softly. "Liam Carter."
I swallowed, nodding slowly. "Ariana."
He said my name like it mattered.
"Ariana," he repeated, voice a little lower. "Nice to meet you."
It had been a long time since someone said those words without expectation or hidden motives.
The bus approached, headlights glowing through the rain. I stepped back, suddenly unsure,suddenly terrified of what his presence was doing to me.
Liam lowered the umbrella slightly, giving me space to move.
"See you around," he said gently.
I boarded the bus without looking back at first. I sat by the window, heart beating too fast for someone who was supposed to be numb.
But I couldn't stop myself.
I looked out the window.
Liam was still there, rain falling around him, umbrella lowered now. He wasn't staring intensely or dramatically. Just watching quietly, like someone who hoped I made it home safe.
Something warm spread through my chest — something I didn't want but couldn't deny
Maybe it was foolish.
Maybe it was dangerous.
Maybe it was the beginning of something I wasn't prepared for.
But for the first time in years…
I didn't feel invisible.
And that terrified me just as much as it comforted me.