Every morning at 8:15 sharp, Mira sat on the old wooden bench outside the little bakery on Elm Street. She wasn't there for the croissants or the coffee. She was there because it reminded her of someone—someone she hadn't met yet, but somehow felt close to.
One rainy morning, she arrived to find someone already sitting on the bench, hunched under a blue umbrella. Mira hesitated. The stranger noticed her pause and smiled. "Sorry, I can scoot," he said, moving aside.
She sat, half under the umbrella, their shoulders just brushing. The smell of warm bread wafted from the bakery door. "You come here often?" he asked.
"Every day," she replied, smiling softly. "It's my quiet place."
"I just moved in down the street," he said. "Didn't know benches could come with regulars."
His name was Aarav. He worked as a freelance illustrator, often sketching people he found interesting. Mira laughed when he shyly admitted he'd already drawn her once—from across the street.
They began meeting on the bench daily, sharing stolen moments before their days truly began. He would draw; she would read. Some days, they didn't speak at all. Other days, they spoke like old friends catching up on years missed.
Winter came. The bakery started serving hot chocolate, and Aarav always brought an extra cup. One morning, as they shared a scarf to fight the cold, he pulled out a small notebook.
He handed it to her.
Inside were sketches of her—smiling, reading, lost in thought. On the last page, in careful handwriting:"I've been drawing my mornings. And somehow, they always start and end with you."
Mira looked up, eyes glistening. "You're my favorite part of the day," she whispered.
That old bench became more than a seat outside a bakery. It became the place two hearts quietly met, every day, until they didn't have to part anymore.
And they never stopped coming back.
Even years later, with children in tow and grey in their hair, that bench remained their beginning.