CHAPTER ONE — The Boy Who Saw Past My Walls
London always felt calmer in the rain. As if the whole city paused, just for a moment, giving space for quiet thoughts to breathe. I wished my mind worked that way too — slow, gentle, peaceful.
But my heart hadn't been peaceful for a very long time.
The sky above the train station was a muted grey, heavy with clouds that seemed ready to collapse. I stepped out into the chilly air, pulling my coat tighter around myself. The wind brushed my cheeks, cold enough to sting, but I welcomed the distraction. Sometimes physical cold felt easier than the emotional kind.
A thin drizzle began, soft at first, then gradually turning steadier. People rushed past me with umbrellas, hoods, newspapers pressed to their heads. Everyone seemed to have somewhere to be, someone waiting for them, something meaningful anchoring their steps.
I had none of that.
My world was smaller now — narrower, quieter. Ever since him, my heart had folded into itself like a frightened child retreating to a dark corner. And I had grown comfortable there, in that shadowed place where nothing new could enter and nothing old could hurt me anymore.
At least, that's what I liked to believe.
I crossed the street toward the bus stop, trying to ignore the weight in my chest. My boots splashed lightly through puddles forming along the pavement. For a moment, I imagined that each ripple was something I dropped long ago — hope, trust, love — and the rain simply washed through the empty spaces left behind.
I didn't want anyone to look at me. I didn't want to be noticed. I just wanted to blend into the city, the way a drop of rain blends into the river.
But someone noticed me.
I saw him out of the corner of my eye — a tall guy, maybe mid-twenties, standing beneath a black umbrella. His hoodie was a soft grey, the sleeves pushed up just enough to show toned forearms. He looked ordinary at first glance, like any Londoner waiting for his bus, but there was something different about him.
Something still.
Something observant.
Something quietly gentle.
He was scrolling through his phone, but when I stepped under the minimal shelter of the bus stop, drenched and shivering, he looked up.
Just a quick glance.
Then another.
And then he really saw me.
Our eyes met for less than two seconds, but it was enough to make my breath catch. His gaze wasn't intrusive, or bold, or flirty. It was… understanding. As if he recognized a sadness he knew too well.
I quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the rain dripping off the bus schedule sign. I didn't want connection. I didn't want warmth. I wanted distance. Distance kept me safe.
He closed his phone slowly, then tilted his umbrella slightly toward me, widening the shade so it covered part of where I stood.
I stepped back. "I'm fine," I said, hoping my tone sounded stronger than I felt.
"You're soaked," he replied softly. His voice surprised me — calm, warm, steady. "You should stand under this."
I swallowed, tightening my coat. "I don't need help."
"I didn't say you needed it," he murmured. "I'm just offering."
I froze.
People didn't talk like that.
Not to me, not anymore.
He studied my face, not with curiosity, but with a quiet concern that made my walls rise instantly.
"You look… tired," he continued, choosing his words carefully. "Not from today. From life."
Something inside me twisted painfully. How could a stranger see that? How could someone I met two seconds ago read a truth I kept hidden from everyone else?
I looked away, blinking back the sudden burn behind my eyes.
"I don't want company," I whispered.
"I'm not trying to be company," he said. "Just human."
The simplicity of that sentence cracked something in me — a tiny fracture running through the hard shell around my heart.
The bus pulled into view, headlights cutting through the rain. People shuffled forward, shaking umbrellas and muttering about the weather. I moved toward the bus quickly, desperate to escape this conversation before it unraveled me.
But as I stepped into the rain again, I felt it — that lingering, watching warmth behind me. I didn't need to turn around to know he was looking at me with the same gentleness, the same soft awareness.
I climbed onto the bus and sank into a window seat, my hair dripping onto my coat, my hands trembling slightly. The bus smelled like wet jackets and faint coffee, the usual scent of London evenings after rain. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, breathing slowly.
The bus began to move.
And then I looked back.
He was still standing there at the bus stop, umbrella raised high, rain splashing softly around him. But he wasn't looking at his phone anymore.
He was looking at me.
Not in a way that felt possessive or intense.
But in a way that felt… kind.
Curious.
Quietly concerned.
Like he had seen something fragile in me and didn't know why it mattered to him.
My heart tightened painfully — that same old pain I thought I buried. I didn't want anyone looking at me like that. I didn't want anyone to try to understand me. I didn't want anyone to knock on the door I had locked from the inside.
And yet…
And yet…
For the first time in a long time, I wished — just a little — that I had stayed under that umbrella.
The city blurred past the window, lights smearing into streaks of gold and white. I closed my eyes, trying to forget the stranger with the umbrella. Trying to forget the way his eyes had softened when he looked at me. Trying to forget the warmth his presence stirred inside a heart I swore would never feel anything again.
But I couldn't.
Because in a world where I had learned to hide so well, someone had finally paused long enough to see me.
And that terrified me more than any