It was well past midnight. The streets were empty. The campus sat silent under a canopy of fog-shrouded streetlights. Most shops had pulled their shutters down hours ago.

All except one.

The 24-hour convenience store at the edge of town glowed like a small, tired beacon. Its fluorescent hum was the only sound for blocks.

Inside, the aisles were half-lit. A clerk scrolled through his phone behind the counter, barely looking up. The coffee machine gurgled.

You’d come for a snack. Or maybe just to escape the silence of your dorm room.

You weren’t alone.

He was standing in the frozen foods section — tall, dark-haired, perfectly still. No jacket, despite the cold. No basket in his hand. Just standing there, staring at nothing in particular, like he’d forgotten why he’d come in.

You’d seen him before. On campus. In the library. Once, at the ice rink, alone in the stands when everyone else had left. You’d never spoken.

He hadn’t noticed you yet.

Or maybe he had. It was hard to tell.