POV: Adrielle

8:15 a.m. The café smells like roasted coffee beans and warm pastries. I slide into my usual seat by the window, the one that gives me a perfect view of the square outside and, conveniently, whoever happens to pass through the door. My sketchbook opens automatically, pencil poised. I like mornings like this quiet, predictable, no one asking questions.

But she’s here again.

The girl with the soft cardigan, the one who always holds her cup with both hands as if it could slip from her fingers. Her hair falls loosely over her shoulders, catching the sunlight in little gold strands. I don’t know her name. I don’t know if she notices me, or if she’s even aware of how often she appears in my sketches. But I’ve drawn her more than anyone else.

I tell myself it’s just practice. Observation. Nothing more. But the moment my pencil touches the page, my hand moves faster than thought. Her eyes, the subtle curve of her mouth, the way her foot taps lightly under the table I trace them without realizing I’m trying

to memorize.

A ping from my phone pulls me back. I glance down: a message from my friend, teasing about my “stalker habits.” I ignore it. Some habits don’t need validation.

She looks up.

Our eyes meet for a split second. There’s a flicker curiosity, maybe surprise. My chest tightens in that weird way it does when something unexpected happens but doesn’t quite scare me. I look back down at my sketch, pretending I’m engrossed, though I know she’s caught me.

A little later, my phone buzzes again. This time, a message that isn’t meant for me her friend’s name lighting up the screen, teasing Lira about “the girl sketching by the window.” My stomach twists. Should I look at her? Pretend I didn’t see it? I do neither. I sip my latte instead, letting the warmth spread through my hands, letting myself calm down enough to notice the subtle details the gentle slope of her shoulders, the way her pen hovers over the page before she writes.

I don’t know what draws me more: the quiet she carries, or the way she seems to exist fully in herself even in a noisy café. Maybe it’s both.

She glances up again, this time at me. I meet her gaze, and there’s a softness there I don’t know how to interpret. Not pity, not curiosity exactly, but… acknowledgment. A quiet recognition, as if she’s aware that I see her. I feel exposed in a way I rarely do, as though someone has drawn a line around me and suddenly knows where my edges are.

I pick up my pencil again, but the sketch doesn’t come easily this time. My hand hesitates over the page. My usual control feels… fragile. I keep erasing, redrawing, trying to capture the shape of her without knowing why.

A notification pops up this time it’s her.

Lira: “Are you… always sketching strangers?”

I stare at the message. My thumb hovers over the screen, but I don’t answer right away. Something in the way she asks not accusatory, just curious makes my chest tighten again. I type back casually.

Adrielle: “Only the interesting ones.”

A pause. Then:

Lira: “…Guess I’m interesting then.”

I laugh softly, the sound swallowed by the café hum. She smiles, looking down at her notebook again, and I realize I’m smiling too, though I don’t fully understand why.

The bell above the door jingles. A group of students files in, breaking the quiet, but I barely notice. My attention is on her the way she tilts her head while drawing, the soft rhythm of her pen, the occasional glance toward the window where the light hits just right. I feel a strange kind of pull, a quiet insistence that lingers even as she packs up her things.

As she leaves, I can’t stop looking. I trace the outline of her figure in my mind, like trying to capture a memory before it fades. And I realize, for the first time in a long while, that some people are worth noticing, worth holding onto, even if you don’t know why.

And maybe… she’s one of them.

POV: Lira

I wasn’t supposed to notice.

The sketchbook had been placed on the little display table in the campus café for a mini student exhibition—just a casual assignment, nothing serious. I’d been wandering through the corner of the café when my eyes caught

the small pencil drawing.

It was me.

Not a perfect representation, but unmistakable. The curve of my hair, the way my cardigan fell over my shoulders, even the slight tilt of my cup in my hands—it was me. I froze. My stomach tightened in a mix of curiosity and embarrassment. Who…?

I scanned the room. Most students were buried in their laptops or coffee, oblivious. My gaze landed on her.

She was seated at the window, sketchbook open, pencil in hand, latte half-drunk, completely absorbed in her own world. Her hair was short, dark, a little untamed, but she had this calm presence that made the café feel qu-eter around her.

Adrielle.

Her name had come to me earlier, whispered by someone’s casual comment—“That’s Adrielle, she sketches all the time.” And now, seeing her up close, I understood why everyone had noticed. She had this nonchalant energy, a way of observing without needing to intrude, yet somehow leaving an imprint on whoever she looked at.

I couldn’t stop staring, though I tried. I sank into the chair near the window, hoping she wouldn’t notice me. But it was too late. Our eyes met, and for a fraction of a second, the world outside the café seemed to blur.

Her expression didn’t change. Calm. Slightly amused. Almost as if she’d expected me to notice eventually. My cheeks warmed. I looked down at my notebook, pretending I was engrossed in a sketch of my own.

A little later, I found myself typing a message on my phone, unsure why I felt the need to reach out:

Lira: “Are you… always sketching strangers?”

I hit send and almost immediately questioned myself. What was I doing? But then the response came, casual, almost teasing:

Adrielle: “Only the interesting ones.”

I smiled without realizing it. The way she phrased it… it wasn’t arrogant, not at all. It felt like a challenge, a joke, and maybe something softer underneath.

Lira: “…Guess I’m interesting then.”

I hesitated before sending, my fingers hovering over the keys. Then I pressed send, heart unexpectedly light.

She laughed softly. I could almost hear it in the café hum. My notebook suddenly felt heavier in my lap. I wanted to draw something, anything, just to have an excuse to stay near her window, near her presence, without seeming like I was staring.

The bell above the door jingled as more students filed in. Conversation buzzed around me, the smell of coffee and sugar lingering in the air, but I hardly noticed. My focus remained on her.

There was something about the way she held her pencil, the slight tilt of her head, the quiet way she observed everything. She didn’t speak much, didn’t intrude on anyone’s space, yet her attention seemed like a magnet. I wanted to understand her—not in a forced way, not in a hurried way, just… slowly, carefully.

I didn’t know what it was about Adrielle that made my chest feel tight and light at the same time, but I knew I wanted to be near it, near her, without having to define it yet. Some people are like that—a quiet presence that makes ordinary spaces feel important.

And as she packed up her sketchbook and left, I found myself hoping the café would feel this way again tomorrow, and the day after that.

I realized, in the simplest, most alarming way: I wanted to see her again.

POV: Adrielle

The café felt unusually warm that afternoon. Sunlight spilled across the wooden tables, catching dust motes in lazy streaks. I had my sketchbook open, though my pencil hovered above the page more than it moved. My mind wasn’t on the lines anymore.

Because she was here.

Lira.

She slid into the chair across the small round table by the window, her notebook clutched to her chest like armor. She smiled faintly when she saw me not wide, not dramatic, just a soft acknowledgment that she remembered I existed. And for some reason, my chest felt tighter than usual.

I tried to act nonchalant. Took a slow sip of my now lukewarm latte. Pretended I was busy sketching the shadow the window frame cast on the floor.

“You always sit here?” Her voice was soft, calm. Not teasing, not too direct just… present.

I looked up, meeting her gaze. She didn’t look anywhere else, didn’t seem like she was trying to intimidate me or make me nervous. Just… watching. Like she wanted to know me, but carefully.

“Usually,” I said, shrugging. “It’s quiet. I can see people without being noticed.”

She nodded, tilting her head. “I noticed.”

My pencil twitched over the page. I wasn’t sure if I should start drawing or pretend I wasn’t paying attention. I chose neither. Silence stretched between us, comfortable but alive, full of unspoken questions.

“You… drew me,” she said quietly, almost a question.

I froze for a fraction of a second, then shrugged again. “I do that sometimes. It’s just practice. Observation.”

Her gaze didn’t falter. “Observation… or something else?”

I blinked. The question wasn’t accusatory, just… curious. She wasn’t prying, but she had this way of making you feel like she could see your thoughts before you even had them. I wanted to deflect, to laugh it off, but somehow I didn’t.

“Maybe something else,” I admitted, voice low. Not a confession, just… honest enough to let her in a little.

She smiled softly, the kind of smile that doesn’t demand anything, doesn’t make you flustered, just warms you from the inside. “I think I like the way you notice things,” she said.

I blinked again. “You do?”

She nodded. “It’s… nice. Not everyone sees the little stuff.”

I felt a faint tug at my chest. I wasn’t used to people noticing me noticing them. Usually, people avoided looking too closely. Too much attention meant expectations, questions, attachments. I liked keeping things at arm’s length. But with her… I didn’t feel the urge to run.

A ping from my phone broke the moment. I glanced down Lira’s name flashed on the screen. I had forgotten she’d messaged earlier.

Lira: “You’re not ignoring me, right?”

I smirked, thumb hovering over the screen. Typing felt unnecessary when she was right there. Instead, I looked up. “Not ignoring,” I said aloud.

She laughed softly, and the sound made the corner of my mouth lift without me noticing.

She leaned back slightly, notebook resting on the table now, no longer a shield. “Good,” she said.

The café was busy around us, but it felt like a bubble. Sunlight on the table, the faint hum of conversation, the smell of coffee and pastries. And her—quiet, patient, observing without judgment.

I didn’t know what this would turn into. A friendship? Something more? I wasn’t sure I wanted to label it yet. But I knew I wanted to keep this moment, these small exchanges, this quiet connection, going.

Because for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel the need to hide.

And maybe… that was the beginning.