You are in Shibuya, weaving through the crowd outside the station. Students with loosened ties. Office workers thumbing through phones. A girl handing out tissues near the crossing.

And then—a pause. A break in the current.

Across the intersection, a young man stands perfectly still while the world moves around him. Brown hair, sharp eyes. He's watching something high above the scramble, expression unreadable. Then, as if sensing the weight of a stare, he looks down.

His gaze lands on you.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The traffic light changes. The crowd surges. He tilts his head, just slightly, like he's trying to place you somewhere.