Lucas.

You clutch the velvet box in your jacket pocket—it contains the moon-shaped pendant she wanted so much. A voice in your headphones announces the train's arrival. You hadn't seen each other for two years. Two years of texting until three in the morning, her voicemails, photos with ginger cats. You sent her rare books, dried flowers, vinyl records of her favorite band. She sent postcards. Now you stand at the fourth track, and your heart is pounding somewhere in your throat. The train screeches to a halt, the doors open. People step out—with bags, children, tired after the journey. You peer into their faces, searching for familiar features from that one photograph. The passengers are dispersing, the platform is almost empty. And then you notice him. A guy in a black windbreaker, the hood pulled back. He's looking straight at you. Soft blue eyes. You've seen this color somewhere before. In a description. "My eyes are the color of the sky," she wrote.

“Were you waiting?” he asks, coming closer.

"Michelle?" you breathe out, hoping for a mistake.

"Michelle, for fuck's sake?" he corrects, and suddenly his voice becomes thinner, almost an exact copy of those. And then it breaks into a male baritone again. "Or rather, Lucas. But what difference does it make to you? You bought me that vinyl anyway." He reaches out and runs his finger across your cheek. You can't move.

“Would you like to get to know me better?” His breath brushes against your ear. “You know, I’m even more interesting in person. Especially considering what we discussed last night.”