She hadn't planned on staying.
At least, that's what she told herself as she stirred her coffee, watching the pale foam dissolve into soft spirals. She had only meant to rest for a moment—escape the heat, let her feet recover, check her phone and leave.
But then there was him.
He sat across from her now, eyes lowered, pencil moving again like he'd forgotten she was there. Or maybe—she wondered—he was simply more comfortable pretending he was alone.
She studied him quietly, careful not to stare.
There was something fragile about the way he existed in the space, like the world was too loud for him and he'd learned how to become smaller just to survive it. His hair fell into his eyes in soft strands, and every so often he would push it back absentmindedly, leaving faint smudges of graphite on his fingers.
She smiled.
Too gently, perhaps.
She had learned to do that over the years—smile in a way that didn't ask for too much. Smile in a way that said I'm safe, I won't hurt you, you don't have to leave.
"Do you come here often?" she asked, breaking the silence.
He startled again, blinking like he'd been pulled out of a dream. "Ah—yes. I mean. Sometimes."
She nodded. "I thought so."
He tilted his head slightly. "Why?"
"This table," she said, gesturing around them. "It feels like someone who comes here a lot would choose it. Quiet. Close to the window."
His ears turned faintly red.
"I like the light," he admitted. "It's… easy to draw in."
She glanced at his sketchbook again, this time noticing what he'd been working on. A face. Soft eyes. A familiar curve to the lips.
It looked like her.
Her breath caught, just slightly.
"You draw people," she said.
He hesitated. "Only sometimes."
"Is this someone you know?"
He shook his head too quickly. "No. It's just—an idea."
She didn't press. Instead, she smiled again, softer than before.
"I like being an idea," she said lightly.
That made him laugh.
It was quiet, surprised—like the sound escaped before he could stop it. His hand flew to his mouth immediately, as if embarrassed by his own joy.
Her heart warmed at the sound.
"I'm—" She paused, then offered her name.
He repeated it carefully, as though tasting it. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he gave her his.
It felt like an exchange of something important.
Outside, the cherry blossoms continued to fall, petals drifting past the window like time itself had slowed just for them.
She realized then—this wasn't just a pause in her day.
This was the beginning of something she would remember.
And as she watched him return to his sketch, a little less guarded than before, she thought quietly to herself:
If he lets me stay… I will..