It wasn’t until October that I first noticed him. Sitting on the train, absorbed in Wuthering Heights, I suddenly felt as if someone was watching me. Sweating slightly, I looked up and saw him on the other side of the carriage. A young man, probably about my age, with dark brown, unkempt hair that stood up in spiky tufts, a faint shadow of stubble on his chin, dressed in tatty jeans and a worn leather jacket. He noticed me glance over and smiled. He had the most incredibly blue eyes and a relaxed, friendly air about him. I glared at him and went back to reading my book, silently letting him know that I wasn’t in a talkative mood.
I soon forgot all about him as Catherine and Heathcliff headed towards their tragic doom, my heart aching in sympathy for their unrequited love while my brain was cynically telling me that all love was destined to end that way. My mind still lost somewhere in the English moors, I vaguely heard him say a cheery goodnight as he got off at his station. I turned and watched as he left the platform with the other commuters, rucksack slung casually over his shoulder, and then he was gone. The doors slammed shut and the train left the station, and all I had left was the memory of the way he’d smiled at me. With a sudden pang I fiercely shoved my book back into my bag and put all thought of him out of my mind.
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