Allie and Curtis had always been in the same orbit—two lives moving side by side, but never intersecting. Background noise in each other's worlds.
Until today.
Allie clocked in for her afternoon shift, and as usual, the café was buzzing. The air smelled of roasted beans and caramel syrup, jazz music hummed softly through the speakers, and sunlight streamed through the tall windows in golden streaks.
She was in a good mood. Earlier that morning, she'd gone with her mom to the doctor's appointment—the news was the best they'd had in months. The tumor had shrunk a little. The treatment was working. They still had a long way to go, but none of that mattered. Her mom was getting better. That was enough. There was no room for negativity today.
She moved through her shift like she was dancing to the music—pouring, stirring, smiling. Her laughter blended with the sound of clinking mugs and steaming milk. Everyone knew her, and she knew everyone. Customers adored her, coworkers leaned on her, and she genuinely loved being part of something that felt like community.
She cleaned tables, served drinks, and handed out smiles like sunshine — never forced, always sincere. She believed in kindness as currency, in connections as quiet investments that someday, somehow, came back around.
At exactly 4 p.m., while refilling the coffee and sugar jars, she saw him.
The man with glasses.
Newspaper tucked under his arm — her quiet, mysterious regular.
Something about him seemed… off today. He moved less precisely than usual, almost clumsy, his composure slightly cracked. Instead of his typical dark roast, he ordered iced tea. On a Wednesday. He never ordered iced tea on Wednesdays. Still, he asked for his usual macaron.
Allie pouted slightly, her lips twitching in amusement. "Well, that's new," she muttered under her breath. Then she shook her head. None of my business.
Curtis took his usual seat in the corner, set his backpack down, and began his ritual—pen in hand, paper spread neatly before him. But his focus wasn't there. His pen moved, but his mind was elsewhere.
He wasn't trying to solve a puzzle. He was trying to solve himself.
Allie noticed the subtle difference — his pen tapping absentmindedly, the crease between his brows deeper than usual. She couldn't help watching.
After a while, she walked over, keeping her tone light. "Another iced tea?"
He looked up briefly, eyes distant. "Thanks."
Just that. No smile, no glance, no spark of recognition.
She nodded and moved on, but her curiosity only grew. Normally, he'd leave within an hour, but today he stayed. The café began to thin out, the sunlight faded, and still he sat there — bent over the crossword, lost.
Allie found herself orbiting closer. She pretended to tidy nearby tables, sneaking quick glances at his puzzle. He'd filled most of it easily — except for one stubborn blank space near the center.
The clue read:
A property of matter by which it continues in its existing state of rest or uniform motion in a straight line, unless that state is changed by an external force.
Allie tilted her head, mouthing the words. "A property of matter…"
She circled behind him, muttering softly to herself as she worked. "Existing state of rest… or uniform motion…" Her brows furrowed. "What's that word again?"
She wasn't even aware she was leaning closer. Her heartbeat synced with the slow rhythm of the music, her thoughts locked on that single clue.
And then—click.
A light sparked in her eyes. She gasped softly, then stepped forward, excitement bubbling over before she could stop it.
"Inertia!" she blurted, her voice bright with triumph.
Curtis's head jerked up, startled. For a second, the world seemed to freeze.
She was leaning over his table, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of her floral perfume. Her face glowed with pride, her smile radiant and unguarded.
"Inertia," she repeated, nodding as if convincing him.
He just stared at her, momentarily speechless — caught between confusion and something else he couldn't name.
And then, realization hit Allie like a wave. She straightened instantly, her cheeks flushing. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to pry or snoop or, um, invade your space. I just — got caught in the moment." She fumbled for words, gesturing awkwardly. "Also, we're about to close!"
Curtis blinked, then glanced at his watch. His eyes widened. "Oh — uh, right."
He scrambled to pack up his things, nearly knocking over his drink in the process. As he made his way to the door, Allie offered a small, apologetic smile, mouthing a quiet sorry.
He hesitated for half a heartbeat—then, unexpectedly, gave a small, shy smile back before leaving.
When the door closed behind him, Allie exhaled a long breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.
"Oh, great," she muttered under her breath. "Way to scare off a regular."
Her pulse was still racing. She busied herself with cleaning, trying to shake off the embarrassment, but a tiny smile tugged at her lips.
Because even if she'd made a fool of herself, she couldn't help thinking about his face when she said the word.
Inertia.
Funny. It fit him perfectly.
And somehow, it felt like the universe was already changing their trajectory.