☓ Strange.

The girl he kept seeing, she appeared in his dreams. Just passing by, then flashing a dark smile to him. Sometimes her smiles are genuine, sometimes she doesn't smile at all as if she hadn't seen him standing right in front of him. Just walking past as if he was invisible. Sometimes she'd look different, but it was vivid to him that it is indeed the same girl. The only thing he could make of our of her is her eyes. Dark, just as his, even though that doesn't describe the color of their eyes. Just sheer emptiness, sometimes almost soulless. 

As strange as these dreams could be, what he saw the next few days were odd. She was there, standing just in front of him in the long queue. And right then Cyril knew that she was one of his kinds as well, (and he was quite pleased since he hadn't met any for a while) the heat emerging from her body felt strong. He knew he hadn't met anyone with such temperature-- last time he felt it was when he met his mother. But that was the last. Maybe the dreams signed something, wanting him to be aware of a new ally or a new enemy; and he only has to make sure.

He was bad at indicating conversations as nobody could be, hesitantly reaching out to tap the girl's small shoulder. You should be confident, he told himself, you're Cyril, for fuck's sake, he reminded again, but instead his fingers nervously dug into his palms when he retreated his hand.