The city had always been my backdrop—noise, neon, the endless pulse of footsteps and wheels but after rain, it changed. The sharpness softened. The lights reflected in pools, fractured into colors the eye couldn't normally catch. That night, the rain had ended just an hour earlier. The air was cool and clean, the pavements slick and shimmering, as if someone had repainted the entire street with varnish.
I wasn't supposed to be there, not really. I had stayed late at the café, my notebook open but words refusing to line themselves in order. Writing was my escape, but lately even that felt like a locked door. Frustration pushed me out into the night, searching for air that didn't taste like failure.
I was turning the corner near the bookstore when it happened.
A sudden weight struck me hard enough to make me stumble half a step back. For a moment, all I saw was movement—dark hair, flying papers, the awkward arc of a bag slipping free. Then the sound followed: the sharp gasp of breath, the scattering of books across wet pavement, pages soaking up water and neon reflection.
She was already on the ground, scrambling with hands that shook slightly, gathering her things as though the world might punish her if she left even a single paper behind. Her apology tumbled out fast, breathless.
"Sorry—God, I'm so sorry"
Her voice wasn't meek. It wasn't timid. It was raw, as though the word sorry carried more weight than an accidental collision should.
I bent down automatically, my hand closing around a small notebook that had landed near my foot. The moment my skin brushed the leather cover, another hand—hers—reached for it too. Our fingers collided, warm against damp paper.
She looked up then.
And the city stopped.
Her eyes held me. Not just dark, not just brown—something deeper. They were restless seas under moonlight, currents moving too fast, as if they had no shore. A strand of hair, damp and stubborn, clung to her cheek, trembling each time she breathed. She wasn't painted in perfection; she was alive in a way that unbalanced me.
I should have let go. I should have pulled my hand back and offered a polite smile, the kind reserved for strangers on rainy nights but I couldn't. For an unreasonable second, my fingers held the notebook tighter, as though by keeping it, I could keep the pull I felt toward her.
She broke it, gently tugging the notebook free.
"Thank you," she whispered, holding the books to her chest like a shield.
Her voice carried something jagged beneath its softness, and it drew me closer instead of pushing me away. That should have been the end. Two strangers.... A clumsy accident... Diverging paths.
But I stayed there, crouched, watching the way her hands trembled ever so slightly, the way her gaze flicked down the side street as though expecting someone—or something—to emerge.
"You okay?" The question slipped from me before I had the chance to weigh its intrusiveness.
Her body stiffened. Her lips parted as though she might tell me a truth too heavy for this corner of the city. Instead, she forced a small nod "I will be"
Will be.... Not am... Not yes.
Her phrasing curled around me, tugged at something I couldn't quite name.
She shifted as though to leave, but my voice caught her again "Wait"
She hesitated, half-turned. The night air clung to us, thick with unspoken things.
In that pause, I realized something terrifying: I didn't want her to walk away.
"Wait"
The word slipped out before I knew what I wanted to follow it with. She stopped, her figure half-lit by the bookstore's dim glow, half-hidden in the shadows that pooled along the wet pavement.
She turned slowly, cautious, her arms still wrapped around her scattered belongings.
I stood, brushing the dampness from my palms, suddenly aware of how reckless I sounded "I didn't mean— I just thought… you seemed—"
She tilted her head, watching me....Waiting.
"You seemed… like you could use someone to talk to," I finished, though it sounded clumsy.
Her lips curved in the faintest smile, not amused, not mocking—just tired "And you're volunteering?"
"Yes," I said before reason could stop me.
She studied me for a long moment, her gaze running over my face as though measuring whether I was safe. I felt exposed under her inspection, as if she could read more from me than I wanted her to.
Finally, she sighed and adjusted the strap of her bag "It's just been… a long night."
Her tone wasn't dismissive; it was layered, as though beneath the simple words lived an entire story. I wanted to peel it open, piece by piece.
"Then maybe it shouldn't end yet," I said carefully, my voice softer than the rain still dripping from rooftops.
Her brow furrowed slightly "What do you mean?"
I gestured toward the bookstore café that stayed open late. Through the foggy glass, I could see the faint glow of lamps, the silhouettes of shelves. "We could sit for a while.... Just coffee or silence, if that's easier."
She hesitated, biting her lower lip. It wasn't reluctance—it was conflict, as if she wanted to say yes but was afraid of what yes might mean.
Finally, she nodded "Coffee, then but just for a little while."
The words settled between us like a secret agreement.
We walked side by side, our steps matched though neither of us tried. The silence wasn't heavy; it was electric, stretched tight like a string that could snap or sing depending on how it was touched.
Inside, the bookstore café was warm, lined with the faint smell of paper and roasted beans. She slid into a corner booth, keeping her bag close as though it contained more than just books. I sat across from her, trying not to stare, and failing.
Up close, under light, she was even more disarming. Not perfect in the glossy, magazine-cover way—but perfect in the way her eyes didn't quite match the calm of her expression, in the way her fingers drummed on the table like they needed an escape.
I ordered two coffees. She didn't protest.
When the mugs arrived, steam curling upward, she wrapped her hands around hers, though she didn't drink. Instead, she watched the steam, her lashes lowered, as if it were easier than looking at me.
"I don't usually do this," she said suddenly.
"Do what?"
"Sit with strangers especially after dark." Her eyes flicked up, pinning me with their storm again "I don't know why I said yes."
I leaned back, trying to keep my voice steady "Maybe because it didn't feel like a stranger asked."
Her lips parted, just slightly. For a second, her mask slipped, and I saw it—something raw, unguarded. Then she blinked it away, sipping her coffee at last.
"What's your name?" I asked.
She hesitated again, then said softly, "Aria."
The name fit her. Music hidden inside chaos.
I smiled "I'm—"
She cut me off gently "Don't tell me yet."
I blinked "Why not?"
"Because," she whispered, swirling her coffee with a slow hand, "sometimes it's easier to talk when names don't get in the way."
Something about that should have warned me. Instead, it drew me closer, like leaning over the edge of something dangerous but irresistible.
Her name lingered between us like smoke. Aria. It wasn't just a word—it was a shape, a sound, a secret. The way she said it, soft but firm, made it feel like she had given me something she rarely offered.
I traced the rim of my mug, trying to anchor myself. She had said not to give my name yet, but my tongue itched to tell her, to give her something in return, to make the ground equal between us. Still, I held back.
"Aria," I repeated, tasting it in my mouth, letting it rest there. Her gaze flicked up at me, sharp, almost suspicious, as if hearing her own name unsettled her. Then it softened, just slightly, and she exhaled.
The café wasn't crowded—just a few night readers, a pair of students arguing over notes, and a man at the counter scrolling through his phone but every time the door opened and closed, I felt her body tense, her fingers tightening around her cup.
"You're waiting for someone," I said quietly. It wasn't a question.
She shook her head "I'm hoping no one follows."
The words were soft, but they carried weight. They shouldn't have stirred jealousy, yet they did. Whoever she feared—or whoever she had left behind—suddenly felt like a rival. Not of love, not yet but of space in her life that I wanted to claim.
I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice "Then tonight, this is your safe place."
Her eyes lifted to meet mine, and for the first time, she didn't look away. The storm in them didn't quiet—it never would—but for a moment, it shifted, as if I had been invited to stand inside it rather than outside, drenched by its fury.
I became aware of how close we were, though a table separated us. The faint scent of her—something floral but grounded, like lilies caught in the rain—drifted across, mingling with the bitterness of coffee. I wanted to memorize it, to make it permanent.