Thursday came faster than I expected, the way an unexpected meeting creeps up on you when you have convinced yourself it doesn't matter.
I told myself it was just another day. A morning full of calls, a midday meeting with the marketing department, a late lunch at my desk. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for the fact that at 6:30 p.m., I was supposed to meet Skillar.
Technically, I could have said no. I should have said no. But a part of me, the part I kept locked away behind conference calls and quarterly reports, wanted to see what he had planned.
By five o'clock, my office was quiet. The rest of the team had gone home, leaving only the hum of the air conditioning and the distant echo of heels on marble somewhere down the hall. I shut down my computer, gathered my bag, and told myself one last time: This is not personal. You are just curious.
The rain had returned, soft this time, a light mist brushing my coat as I walked toward the small cafe we'd agreed on. I spotted him immediately, leaning against the wall under the cafe's awning. He wasn't looking at his phone like most people do while waiting. He was watching the street, hands in his pockets, a faint smile on his face like he knew some secret about the world.
"Right on time," he said when I approached.
"I don't like to waste time," I replied, my voice clipped. The armor was on.
He pushed open the cafe door for me, and I stepped inside, the warm scent of roasted coffee and cinnamon wrapping around me. It was quieter than I expected, a few tables occupied by people speaking in low tones.
We ordered drinks. black coffee for me, something with too much foam and sugar for him. and he led me to a table by the window.
"I wanted to show you something," he said once we sat. "Not here, though. Finish your coffee first."
"And what exactly am I agreeing to?" I asked, arching a brow.
"You will see." His grin was infuriating.
We drank in silence, the rain streaking the glass beside us. My mind was already running through possibilities, none of which made sense for a man I'd met only twice.
When we stepped back out onto the street, he led me a few blocks down to an old brick building. The kind that looked forgotten by time. Inside, the space opened into a wide, dimly lit gallery. Photographs lined the walls. black-and-white street shots, candid moments of strangers frozen in time.
"These are yours?" I asked, surprised.
He nodded. "I have been taking them for years. People, places, moments most would walk right past. But I don't show them to many people."
I moved from frame to frame, the images pulling me in. A child laughing in the rain, an elderly couple holding hands on a bench, a street musician lost in his song. Ordinary, yet… not.
"Why show them to me?" I asked quietly.
"Because you look like someone who sees everything… but lets very little in," he said, meeting my eyes. "And I think you deserve to see the world differently for a moment."
Something in my chest tightened. I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that I saw plenty, that I let people in when I wanted to. But the truth was written too clearly in the spaces I kept empty.
I almost stepped back. Almost told him I had to leave, that I didn't have time for this.
But instead, I stood there, letting the silence stretch, my eyes fixed on a photograph of a woman alone on a rooftop, staring at the horizon as if waiting for something she wasn't sure would come.
Maybe I was waiting too.
"Come on," he said softly, breaking my thoughts. "There's a rooftop here too. It's not in the photos… yet."
We climbed the narrow staircase to the top, the air cooler and sharper when we stepped outside. The city stretched around us, lights flickering in the mist. The rain had slowed to the faintest drizzle, like the sky was reluctant to let go completely.
He leaned against the low wall, watching the streets below. "When I was a kid, I thought rooftops were secret worlds. Places where no one could touch you. Still feels that way sometimes."
I joined him, my gaze following the slow crawl of traffic, the way neon signs reflected off wet pavement. It was quiet up here, almost too quiet for a city this size.
For a moment, I forgot about my deadlines, my meetings, the constant uphill climb of keeping my place in a world that would rather see me slip. For a moment, I let the quiet in.
"Thank you," I heard myself say.
"For what?"
"For… this," I said, gesturing to the city, the stillness, him.
He smiled, but didn't push for more. And I realized then that maybe that's why I hadn't walked away yet, he didn't demand my walls to come down. He just stood where the door was open and waited.
When I finally left that night, walking alone back to my car, I carried something with me I hadn't expected: the awareness that I wanted to see him again. And that scared me more than I cared to admit.
I thought about this feeling all night. It's been a long time since I felt this way. I thought that a lot had changed in my life since I met him. I still hate changes and even the admission of it all, but it's true. He became the light of my life. After every meeting with him, I realize that something changes in me.
The following week began like any other. too many emails, too little patience. I buried myself in work, convincing myself that the rooftop moment with Skillar had been nothing more than a pleasant detour.
Still… detours have a way of lingering.
On Monday, I caught myself glancing at my phone more than usual. Not because I was expecting a message from him. at least, that's what I told myself. but because the possibility sat there, quietly tapping on the back of my mind.
By Wednesday, I'd found an excuse. A perfectly logical, entirely innocent reason to be near the gallery district where he'd shown me his photographs. There was a supplier I "needed" to check on, though in truth, the order could have been handled over email in less than two minutes.
I walked past the gallery on my way back to the office. Just once, slow enough to glance through the window. The space was empty, the frames still lining the walls like silent witnesses. I didn't go in. Not that day.
Thursday evening, my phone buzzed.
Are you free tomorrow?