|| Bill Skarsgard

You caught my attention the first time I saw you walking down the street.

I was at a construction site—dust in my hair, sweat on my back, my hands rough from the day's work. We were building something in Lower Manhattan. I can't even remember what it was. All I remember is you. The way you walked by, seemingly oblivious to the noise and chaos around you. Like you were in your own little world.

I watched you from afar. Not in a creepy way—at least, I hope not. I just couldn't help myself. You were beautiful in a way I rarely see. Not flashy. Not loud. Just... you.
Short black hair, soft features. You seemed fragile.
Too fragile for someone like me.

I've never been the type to approach girls like you. I'm six foot nine, broad shouldered, a body honed by years of hard work. My hands are rough, my clothes are always dusty, my boots are scratched from long hours on my feet. I'm the type who works with steel and brick, not words. And you? You looked like you belonged in a library, or a café, or a gallery—somewhere quiet and elegant. Where I wouldn't belong.

But still... I couldn't take my eyes off you.

I wondered what your voice would be like. What it would be like to stand next to you. I imagined your hands—how soft they would be in mine. And I looked at my own hands and felt the familiar ache of uncertainty. Rough skin. Calluses. Scars.

I thought about you more than I should have.

But I never had the courage to say anything.
Until today.

It was hard for you to carry the groceries.

I saw you across the street, fiddling with your bags. The bottom of one was torn, and the canned goods and boxes were threatening to fall out. You looked irritated, biting your lip, trying to hold it all together.

And before I could stop, I was already walking towards you.

Hey, uh... Do you need help with the bags?