The evening felt heavier than it should.
Not wild, not stormy—just slow. Slow and gray, like the sky was carrying a secret it couldn't speak of. Rain drizzled patiently, soft and persistent, coating the narrow streets in a slick silver that shimmered under the flickering streetlights. Each droplet made a sound against the pavement—tiny, consistent, like a heartbeat I couldn't ignore.
I held my coat tighter around me. The air embraced my skin with damp fingers, cool and intimate. My breaths were shallow. Controlled. Or at least I pretended they were. My boots splashed through shallow puddles as I turned down the street toward the café—telling myself I was calm, that this was nothing, that tonight was ordinary.
But the faster I walked, the faster my heart raced.
And then—I saw him.
Daniel.
Sitting alone at a small café table beneath a dim awning. A cup of coffee in his hand. His dark hair slightly messy—as though the rain had tried to claim it but failed. He looked like someone who listened when people spoke. Someone who noticed details. Someone whose silence meant something.
My breath caught. My pulse stuttered. Something tugged at me—as if the air tightened between us the moment our eyes met.
He looked up slowly. And when his gaze landed on me… it lingered. Not by accident. Not politely. But knowingly—like he had been waiting for exactly me.
The wet pavement beneath my feet echoed each step I took toward him. And with every step, I felt my composure slip like water through my fingers.
"Hi… I'm… Ashley," I said when I reached the table. My voice betrayed me—soft, unsure, trembling even though I tried to make it sound steady.
His smile was immediate. Warm. Disarming. Like sunlight in the middle of winter.
"Ashley," he said, as though he was testing my name on his tongue. As though he'd been wanting to say it for a while. "I'm Daniel."
He stood to shake my hand—and when his fingers touched mine…
I felt it.
A jolt.
A spark.
Something I could not name.
Our hands lingered—just for two seconds too long. And in those two seconds… I felt more alive than I had in months.
---
We talked. Not about anything important at first. Just small things. Favorite movies. Embarrassing teen moments. How he always ordered the same thing at cafés—black coffee, no sugar.
"Like suffering?" I teased.
"Like truth," he said. And smiled.
His laugh was soft but real. Mine… was unexpected. I hadn't heard that sound from myself in weeks. Months, maybe. I didn't know if it belonged to me anymore.
But somehow, with him—it returned.
Every time his hand brushed the table too close to mine… my heart reacted before my mind could. I studied his movements, the subtle shifts in his expression when he listened, the way his voice dipped lower when the conversation grew serious.
Time moved differently with him. The rain outside the café became background noise. The silence between words wasn't awkward—it was electric.
Then, as if pulled by something neither of us could see—he leaned in slightly.
And quietly, almost like a confession, he whispered—
"I already love you."
My entire body went still.
For a second, I thought I misheard it. I blinked. My heart clenched so sharply it almost hurt. There was no logic—no reason—no explanation. He was a stranger. He had a life beyond this moment. I should have gotten up and walked away.
But instead… I whispered,
"Why do I feel like I already know you?"
His eyes softened. That answer must have been enough for him. Because he didn't pull away.
He held my gaze. The air between us tightened—charged with a tension that felt dangerous and safe at the same time. Like standing at the edge of something you know could destroy you… but wanting to jump anyway.
"I don't know what this is," I murmured. "But it feels like—"
"A beginning," he finished for me.
---
I didn't touch him. I didn't move closer.
But I wanted to.
God, I wanted to.
Yet somewhere in the depth of my mind, a voice of reason screamed for control. He's not yours. You don't even know him. There's something he's not telling you.
I should have listened. But something in his eyes told me this moment was rare—fragile. And I wanted to keep it.
But reality doesn't knock. It barges in.
And then—she appeared.
A tall figure stepped into the café, brushing off rain as if even weather made way for her. She had caramel skin and sleek black hair that fell effortlessly down her shoulders. Poised. Calm. Elegant in a way that said she belonged everywhere she walked.
Genevieve.
She didn't look at me first. She looked at him.
That told me everything.
"Daniel." Her voice was smooth. Not angry. Not jealous. Just… sure of its place.
"I just got a call from the wedding planner. We need to leave now to catch up."
Wedding planner.
The word dropped like lead into my stomach.
His smile faded. Just for a second—but I saw it. Then he turned to me, voice perfectly composed. Perfectly practiced.
"Ashley… this is my childhood friend, Genevieve."
I froze.
Childhood friend?
She wasn't looking at me with curiosity. She was looking at me with awareness. As if she could hear that silent spark between us. As if she could sense the warmth of a conversation she hadn't been part of—but knew existed.
I forced a polite smile, even as my pulse throbbed in my throat.
Genevieve slid her hand into his. Naturally. Effortlessly. As if it belonged there.
As if she belonged there.
But just before he stood to leave—he looked at me again.
And in his eyes—just for a moment—there was sorrow.
And longing.
And a question neither of us were brave enough to ask.
We didn't hug goodbye.
We didn't even say much.
But I felt him. Like warmth spreading through cold lungs. Like a hand brushing mine in a dream.
I watched them walk away.
Their backs turned to me.
Their laughter fading with distance.
Yet—I still felt him here.
In the silence.
In the memory.
In the way my heartbeat refused to return to normal.
I stood alone in the rain.
But it didn't feel like rain anymore.
It felt like everything in me was changing—quietly, dangerously.
Too good to be true, I whispered.
But some part of me still believed…
that he felt it too.