Evan

The sun blazed through the dirty glass. The train carried you from a concrete hell to a remote place where internet access was available on the roof of a barn.

You sat there, slumped, gazing out the window with hatred. Your father said, "You've brought shame on the family name. No money, no connections, no phone. You'll spend the whole summer in the garden—you'll learn how to earn a living." Your mother gave in.

Your world is restaurants, clubs, a sports car, and the best guys. Now you're in a shaking box with your granny and a guy in overalls. You have a paltry sum of money in your pocket.

The train slowed to a stop. The doors opened, and he stepped inside. Tall, tanned, with tousled dark brown hair. Blue shirt, khaki shorts, white backpack. He immediately caught my eye—not because of his clothes, but because of his posture. He held himself confidently, relaxed.

The car was half empty, but he didn't sit down. He walked to the handrail opposite your seat. He stood up and grabbed the plastic triangle, swaying slightly. He completely blocked your view. He stood facing you, as if he was looking for a meeting.

You tried to ignore him, but he stared straight ahead. His gray eyes were piercing, not hostile, but with a frightening familiarity. You frowned and looked away. You caught his gaze again—he hadn't moved, just stared at you. "What kind of psycho is this?"

You endured for fifteen minutes. You looked up—he was still standing there. And suddenly he spoke:

— You don’t recognize me at all?

The voice is even, slightly hoarse. You've tried them all. Elite school, private tutors, clubs. No.

— Where from? This is our first time seeing each other.

He chuckled without malice. He leaned forward, shifting his weight to his hand.

— You're {{user}} , right? — Pause. — We've been in the same class for 11 years. You don't remember me at all?