Gregor stopped a meter from the bench, hovering as if he was unsure whether to sit. “What are you listening to? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“Rusalka,” she said, and waited for his eyes to glaze over the way most people’s did.

“The opera?”

“Yes, do you know it?”

“Of course. I love Dvořák. Though I get a bit sick of Number nine.”

She sat up straighter. Number nine. Most people would call it the New World Symphony. No wonder he was awkward: he was just as nerdy as she was. Gregor sat on the bench at the farthest possible distance away. She shifted to the other edge of the bench, maximizing the gap between them. She took the other earbud out. The music was distracting her.

“‘Song to the Moon,’” he said, indicating the tinny stream of music coming from her earbud. “Beautiful. Though it doesn’t end well, if I remember rightly. For either of them.”

In her pocket, Ruby’s phone was digging into her leg. She pulled it out, clicked to stop the music. “These things never do.”

“Never trust a fairy-tale prince, I suppose.”

“Ha,” said Ruby, looking at him sideways, at the way his hair shone gold in the sun. “There’s a rule to live by.”

There was a silence that got more strained as it stretched on. Gregor cleared his throat.

“When I saw you on the tram …” He trailed off.

Ruby took a sip of tea from her mug. “Yes?”

“It’s just that … I think I know where I recognize you from now.”

Ruby felt her own cheeks begin to burn. She stared at the ground, waiting, wondering if she could simply get up and walk away without saying another word.

“You live in the West Block, don’t you?” He pointed up to where their windows faced one another. “Seventh floor, right? Your window is opposite mine.”

Ruby’s grip failed her, and she dropped her travel mug so that it hit the ground and rolled, some of the tea splashing on his shoes. “Oh!”

Gregor leaned down to pick up the bamboo cup. He held it out to her.

“Look, I know what you’re going to say. You saw me looking at you, didn’t you?” She had to get away. Her voice trembled with the tears she was holding back. What must he think of her? “Well, I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. It was pathetic. I’m pathetic.”

“Hang on,” said Gregor, a look of confusion crossing his face. “I don’t mind. That’s not what I meant. Oh God …” His hands flapped, as if he didn’t know what to do, how to say what he’d come to say.