Before The Bell Rings

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.

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