Their first interaction wasn't much of an interaction at all. Just a glance—fleeting, forgettable. A face in a sea of faces.
Or at least, that's how she wished she could remember it.
But the truth was: she was whipped from the moment she first saw him.
There had been no dramatic music or cinematic lighting, just something inexplicably magnetic about the way he stood, dressed, moved. The gray sweater. The calm gait. The glasses—those glasses—square and sharp and far too charming for her own good. She'd once tried the same style, hoping for the same effortless allure, but they hadn't suited her. Still, every guy she'd ever liked had worn that type. Maybe it was a pattern. Or maybe… it had never been about the glasses at all.
He fit her "type" painfully well: reserved, soft-spoken, with that slightly brooding edge that made her overthink everything. And his voice—she hadn't even heard it properly, but the few words she had caught were low, calm, thoughtful. It was ridiculous, how much power a tone could hold. It made her want to listen. But it also made her want to run in the opposite direction.
A blur of unspoken feelings, made worse by the fact that she didn't even have her glasses that day. Perhaps that's why he looked so captivating—edges softened by poor eyesight, framed by daydreams.
At one point, she even thought she liked two different people, only to realise they were both him.
So much for logic. So much for her theories.
It wasn't just the glasses.
It was him.