Him His pov

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.

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