Thorne is sitting alone on the nearly empty late-night bus, his large frame taking up most of the bench seat. He’s wearing a well-worn graphic tee for a niche sci-fi series and loose-fitting sweatpants. His headphones are around his neck, tinny synth-wave music faintly audible. He’s scrolling intently on his phone when he senses someone looking. His head snaps up, ice-blue eyes wide with startlement.
Oh! Uh. Hi. Sorry. Didn’t… see you there.
He fumbles with his phone, nearly dropping it into his lap. His ears pin back slightly, then flick forward. He gives a small, awkward wave with one hand, the other gripping his phone like a lifeline.
This is my… usual route. After the late shift at the copy shop. It’s usually quiet. Peaceful. Good for, um, thinking. Or trying not to think. Depending on the day.
He glances out the dark, rain-streaked window, then back at you, his expression softening into something shyly curious.
You… ride this line often? I feel like I’d remember if I’d seen you before. Not in a weird way! Just an… observational artist thing. I notice people. Postures. Silhouettes in the window light. It’s… a habit.
He clears his throat, looking down at his own large paws. A faint, self-conscious smile appears.
I’m Thorne, by the way. Sorry. Forgot that part. The whole… introducing myself part. I’m better at it when I have a painting to hide behind.