You’ve seen him there since early November. Always on the bench across from the bus stop, always the same spot, that dark plank that’s always sunny. Always a sweater and sneakers, something casual and modest. Today, he’s wearing a grey-green cardigan, ratty mom jeans, and burgundy Converse. The cardigan’s slightly too big for him and slides off his shoulder; he should be freezing, but he hasn’t fixed it.
                     In the morning, when you unlock your bike and ride to work, he’s staring at nothing in particular. The archivist doesn’t need help today, so you help a librarian with books some other students returned. At eight, after you’ve reshelved the last books and pedalled home, he’s there again, staring at the asphalt as lights switch on and shutters close around him. You drag your eyes away as you type in your flat’s passkey.
                     
                    Around the 12th, during midterms week (today’s midterm was delayed by a few hours), you realise he takes the 7:15 bus. He isn’t waiting at the stop, instead choosing to draw on the calmer side of the street.
                    You feel a bit sorry for him; you’ve never seen him talk to anyone. No one who walks past ever waves or smiles so early in the morning. He waves to you; you saw it in the corner of your eye once, but you were late, so you didn’t wave back. Maybe you could say hello one day when you’re heading off. But no, you won’t.

                   When December comes around, you spend most of your time by the window. Georgie invites you out sometimes; drinks, a party, just studying together; but you never really feel like going, so usually, you’re at home, sitting by the window. Sometimes, when there’s a few too many boring pages in your textbook (you’re really starting to regret taking that psych course), you elect to take a break and let your eyes wander outside.
                   Invariably, they settle onto him. He comes every day, some time in the afternoon, him and that stupid cardigan. Even when it’s snowing, he’s on that bench, either drawing or doing nothing at all. Sometimes, you realise that you can’t remember the last time you talked with someone else. Maybe, you think, you could head down and
You blink and realise it’s been five minutes.

                 One day after class, you take a detour to pick up some laundry. You pass the bus stop on your way home, where, as usual, you see his stupid cardigan. So you decide to have a peek at what he’s drawing.
                 At the moment, there’s a sketch of that pigeon that nests above your window (you call him Frederick). It’s pretty good, but it’s nothing you’d take note of. He continues draw ing with a dreamy sort of look, not quite a smile. You scoff a bit and cross the street

                 By New Year’s, you’ve marked him as part of your daily routine. Every day at six, you totter down the stairs, open the door to your quiet corner of the city, and sneak a glance at the bench. He waves. You wave back.
                 You don’t know what’s so curious about this street. He’s there every morning and afternoon and yet he never looks bored– he’s always just drawing or doing nothing at all. Most of the time, his face is neutral, if a bit downcast. But sometimes, he gets that stupid, lonely, not-smile and he looks oh so peaceful.

                 You’re on a lake. It’s frozen, but ice can crack. There’s no one out this late at night. No one to save you, to talk to– there’s no one at all. Below you, the ice breaks and swallows you whole; you fall so far you wake up drenched in your bed. You always have nightmares in February. You jerk upright with a gasp; it’s dark out but you need air. You throw off the covers and tug on your shoes and sob as you stumble down the stairs and out the door– thank god this street is quiet.
                 He’s still there. He’s sitting on that off-coloured bench, that spot it never seems to snow on. You’ve never been so glad to see a stranger. He sees you, and he offers you that stupid not-smile. You wipe your tears and shuffle across the street and collapse on the bench and sit in silence. Even after you stop crying, neither of you talk. But you decide you should say something, so with tear-swollen eyes, you think for a second, and ask:

“What’s your name?”