Of course.
He's holding a to-go cup and a camera bag slung over his shoulder, baseball cap pulled low. His eyes widen when he sees me, genuine surprise flickering behind them.
"Oh," he says. "Hey."
I pull my earbuds out, suddenly self-conscious of how sweaty I probably look. "Hey."
He blinks at me for a second, then scratches the back of his neck. "I, uh… I got your text."
My stomach flips, just a little.
I try to play it cool. "You didn't reply."
"I know," he says quickly, stepping a bit closer. "I was going to… but I thought I'd rather see you."
His words land softly, but they settle deep.
Something about the way he says it—simple, honest—makes my chest tighten in a different way. Not panic. Not confusion.
Just… something.
"I'm sorry I didn't say anything back," he adds. "I didn't want to be another voice saying the wrong thing at the wrong time."
I nod, unsure of what to say to that.
