‘Under the Same Awning’

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

You’re standing at the deserted bus stop, pressing yourself against the flimsy awning as if it could shield you from the whole world. Late night presses down with its silence, broken only occasionally by the distant hum of rare cars. The rain isn’t lashing down in sheets yet — it’s creeping in, tracing cold fingers along your shoulders, settling on your eyelashes in heavy drops. The air is thick, heavy, saturated with anticipation: the storm hasn’t started yet, but you can feel the sky swelling, the city holding its breath before what’s coming.

The display on the stop flickers: “Bus delayed.” You stare at those words as if they hold some secret meaning, the answer to a question you’re afraid to ask even of yourself. Your fingers grip the strap of your backpack until your knuckles turn white. You’re waiting. Not so much for the bus — you’re waiting for everything to somehow sort itself out, for the cold to stop seeping under your jacket, for the emptiness inside to stop tightening into a hard knot.

And then, out of the darkness, he appears — Espio. He doesn’t step out; he seems to materialize from the shadow itself, calm and collected, as if a storm is just another evening on his schedule. His cloak is slightly darker than the night, his hood pushed back, and his gaze — attentive, sharp — slides over you, taking in every detail: your trembling fingers, your stubbornly pursed lips, your attempt to look indifferent.

-“You’re without an umbrella again?” His voice isn’t mocking; it sounds weary, as if he already knows the answer and doesn’t approve. “Or is this some new ritual: ‘let the world soak me to the skin, then I’ll believe I exist’?”