Chapter 1

Her

People think love begins with something obvious,a glance that lingers too long, a moment that feels different.

Ours didn’t.

It began in silence. In passing. In the kind of ordinary moments you never think twice about, until they become the ones you cannot forget.If I had known how it would end, I would have still met him.

Just maybe not stayed as long.

The first time I notice him, he is not doing anything remarkable.

Just sitting there, a little away from everyone else, like there is an invisible line around him no one crosses.

He does not look lonely.

Just… unavailable.

And somehow, that makes me notice him again.

The café is quiet today. It usually is.

I like that. It gives me space to think, or sometimes, to not think at all. The window seat is where I go without deciding. It feels familiar now, like something I can rely on.

I sit down, place my bag beside me, and let out a slow breath I did not realize I was holding.

My eyes drift across the room without much interest. And then, without trying, they land on him.

Same corner. Same stillness.

It is strange how easy it is to recognize someone you have never spoken to.

I look away first. Not because I have to. Just because it feels like I should.

I tell myself it means nothing. People notice people all the time. It does not mean anything.

Still, the next time I glance up, he is there again. Not moving much. Not looking around.

Just existing in his own space, like the rest of the room does not quite reach him.

There is something about that which feels… steady.

The next day, I come in a little late.

My usual seat is taken.

I hesitate for a second, scanning the room, and then I notice the empty chair in the corner.

His seat.

I do not think too much before walking over and sitting down.

It is just a chair.

A few minutes pass before I feel it.That slight awareness you get when someone is standing nearby.I look up.He is there.Not close. Just enough to make it clear.For a second, neither of us says anything.I realize then.This is his place.I should probably say something.

Apologize. Move. But I don’t.

And he doesn’t ask.

He just looks at the chair, then at me.Our eyes meet for a brief second.There is nothing sharp in his expression No annoyance. No impatience. Just distance.

Then he turns away and walks to another table. I let out a breath I did not know I was holding. That was… nothing.It should feel like nothing.But it doesn’t.The next day, I sit back near the window. And when I look toward the corner, he is there again.Like always.I do not understand why that feels right.

But it does.

The café is quieter than usual. Or maybe it just feels that way. I sit in the same place I always do. Not because I care about the seat, but because it is easier this way. No decisions. No changes.Routine is simple. Simple is better.

I notice her before I mean to. She sits near the window most days. Not doing anything unusual. Just sitting, sometimes reading, sometimes staring outside like she is somewhere else. I do not think much of it at first.People come and go. They do not stay long enough to matter.But she does. Not in any obvious way.She is just… there. Often enough to be familiar. Quiet enough to not be distracting.The day she takes my seat, I stop for a second. Not because I am annoyed.

Just surprised. It does not happen often.

She looks up. For a moment, I think she might move. Or say something. But she doesn’t.

And I don’t ask. It is just a seat.

So I walk away and sit somewhere else.

It should not matter.

But the next day, she is back near the window.

And my seat is empty again.I do not think about it much.Still, when I walk in, I notice.

She is already there.I look away before she does.Not for any reason I can explain.

Some things are easier when you do not give them meaning.

This is one of them.

For now.The third day is different. I don’t go to my usual seat, even though it’s open. Instead, I choose a stool at the far counter, facing the wall. I tell myself the lighting is better for reading, but the words on the page don’t blur into sentences today. They stay as individual marks of ink.

I can feel the space behind me. I can feel the exact moment the bell above the door rings—two sharp, metallic chimed note and I know it’s her before I hear her footsteps. They are lighter than mine, a rhythmic tapping against the hardwood that stops right where I used to sit.

For the first time, the routine feels like a weight. I wonder if she notices the change in the air, or if I am just a background character in her day, as stationary as the furniture. When I finally risk a glance in the reflection of the window, she isn't looking at the street. She’s looking at the empty seat I usually occupy. Just for a second. Then, she pulls a small, sunflower-yellow notebook from her bag. She hesitates, her thumb tracing the worn edge of the cover before she opens it to a middle page. From my new vantage point in the shadows of the back corner, I watch her write a single line. She doesn't look around to see if I’m watching; she doesn't have to. The air between us is thick with the unspoken recognition that the rhythm of this room has been disrupted.

She leaves the notebook open on the table, tucked slightly under the edge of her saucer, and stands up to order her usual.