My shift had been over for three hours, and here I was tossing and turning in my bed, wondering who he was.

The man on the motorbike who saved my life. I had worked in that store for six months, and he had never been there, not once in all this time.

The footfall was less at night anyway, but I had a few regulars who knew the drill. Avoid pump 4. If the card reader did not work, walk in and pay at the cash register. Most of them were either truck drivers or night shift workers, once I even had a band of strippers raiding the candy aisle. But that’s a story for another time.

As I struggle to sleep, my phone beeps beside me, and I immediately pick it up. I'm not the one to have too many friends, so it was a mystery who was texting me this late at night or should I say this early in the fricking morning. I had only one friend, and I’m pretty sure Lindsay is drooling all over her pillow right now.

But it's not a text at all, it’s a follow request on Instagram, from an anonymous account.

I click on the account, and all I see are cryptic quotes and dozens and dozens of pictures of sunrises.

I keep scrolling, and there is nothing new, just nature, some philosophical quotes, that’s it. No, DP no bio, nothing.

I almost gave up and decided to decline the request when I received a message request. It was from the same account, and all it said was.

‘You, ok? Did he return to bother you?’

In that instance, I knew exactly who this account belonged to, and a flush crept up my face.

I stared at the text for a few minutes before typing a reply.

‘I am. And no, he didn’t.’

I turned off the screen, thinking he would not text again, when my phone pinged again.

‘Glad to hear that, good night.’

It was morning now; the sun had started to creep up the horizon, yet he texted me good night. Because he knew it was my night.

The next couple of days were uneventful at the gas station. Yet every time a loud engine vehicle passed in front of the gas station, I perked up from my spot behind the cash register to check if he was back.

Spoiler alert: he wasn’t. He had never been here before, and I don’t think he will ever come back.

In the past day, I have created at least a dozen imaginary theories as to why he was at the gas station, and my best one so far is…

He was passing through our town, he needed gas and being the only 24/7 gas station, he came here, right when I was getting hit by a mean, fat truck driver.

But this does not answer the question of why he sent me a follow request and checked up on me? Maybe he was just being nice, who knows.

As I scribbled on a notepad, waiting for the clock to hit 6 in the morning, I heard it. The loud grumble of a motorbike engine, and before I could look up and get a glimpse of him.

The man clad in all black walked into the store. The bell chimed in his wake, and I was awestruck all over again. He rested his hands on the table before me, rattling it a bit and leaned in.

“Why have you not accepted my follow request yet?” he asked, and that was the last thing I expected him to ask.

“I…I…I was…going…” Believe me, I tried to speak. Normally, I have no problem answering people, but the way my own reflection looked back at me from the dark-tinted glass of the visor of his helmet shut me up.

I looked like a deer caught in the headlights. For context, I had no idea who he was, what he looked like, how old he was, or why he was here asking me this question.

“I don’t know you.” I finally managed to say, and he chuckled.

“Oh, you do know me. Or at least you used to.” He said and backed up, leaning against a refrigerator, he started at me or at least his helmet was pointed in my direction.

“Thank you for saving me, but I am a bit hesitant to follow strangers on Instagram.”

He nodded as if all I said made perfect sense.

“So, if I tell you how you know me, will you accept the request then?”

“I’ll follow you back too,” I added, and he chuckled; it was a deep sound, although it was muffled by his helmet.

“We both went to the same high school. Greenward High.”

There were a million people in that school, and only one of them was my best friend, and I'm pretty sure Lindsay is not a guy.

“There were a lot of students there. How do I know who you are?” I asked, and he nodded again.

“By the way, how is Lindsay doing now? Does she still sing?” That little comment startled me, as no one, I mean no one except Lindsay and me, knew that she ran a private Instagram and YouTube page where she uploaded faceless videos of herself singing.

So, if this guy knew about her singing, he had to be someone close, or at least someone who knew us closely. My mind ran through a dozen faces a second. But not one stuck. Lindsay was in the school band, sure, but she wasn’t a singer in it.

As I said, no one except us knew she sang.

“Who are you and how do you know that?” I am sceptical of this guy now. Did he have a diabolical plan?

Sensing my wary tone, he raised his hands in defeat.

“Relax, relax, I mean no harm. She always had a beautiful voice. I hope she found the courage to sing more freely. And besides, I have no interest in her; it's you I want to follow.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“What is?”

“That I like you, I've always had, since high school.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me back then?”

“I did, but you ignored me.”

Once again, my mind ran through multiple scenarios: who had confessed their feelings to me? I did not remember rejecting a guy.

“I knew you would not be able to recall me. Never mind. I don’t plan on being ignored this time.” Saying that he pulled a bottle of Coke from the fridge he was leaning against, put it on my counter with a 20-dollar bill and left.

“Hey, you don’t want your Coke or your change?” I yelled as he opened the door.

“He turned back and chuckled, the Cokes are for you, and so is the change.” A minute late, his motorbike rumbled, and he was gone.

And I stood there wrangling my brain to tell me who the hell this mystery man was.

(To be continued...)