We sat by the window, the city moving past us in blurs of motion and color.
I wrapped my hands around my coffee, more for something to hold than for warmth. Theo sat across from me, relaxed but attentive, like he was aware of the space between us and was careful not to cross it.
That alone made me uneasy.
"So," he said lightly, tearing off a small piece of pastry, "do we pretend this is our first real conversation, or acknowledge that fate is being suspicious?"
I snorted before I could stop myself. "You believe in fate?"
"I believe in patterns," he replied. "And you keep showing up in mine."
My heart skipped, and I hated it.
I took a sip of coffee to hide my reaction. "Maybe you just go to the same places."
"Maybe." He tilted his head, studying me. "But you don't strike me as someone who likes maybes."
I looked away.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was observant, thoughtful. Like he was waiting to see if I would fill it.
Most people did.
I didn't.
Theo smiled faintly. "You're good at this."
"At what?"
"Being quiet without making it uncomfortable."
I shrugged. "I've had practice."
Something in his expression softened. "That usually comes from needing space."
I stiffened. He hadn't said it like an accusation—more like recognition—but it still felt too close.
"I just like my peace," I said.
"And do I disturb it?"
The question was simple. Honest.
I met his gaze, surprised by the way he asked it—like my answer mattered.
"No," I said after a moment. "You don't."
His smile was small, but it lingered.
We talked then. About small things. Where we liked to walk when the city felt too loud. The kind of music that played in the background of our lives. The comfort of routines that didn't demand too much.
Theo listened more than he spoke.
When I finished a thought, he didn't rush to respond. He let my words settle, like they deserved time.
No one had ever listened to me like that.
Not without wanting something in return.
"You're different," he said quietly.
I tensed. "You don't know me."
"I know," he said. "But I'd like to."
The honesty of it stole my breath.
When we stood to leave, I felt a strange sense of disappointment, as if something unfinished was slipping through my fingers.
Outside, the city felt louder.
Theo hesitated, then looked at me. "Can I see you again?"
The question was gentle. No expectations. No pressure.
I swallowed.
"I don't make plans," I said, the words practiced and safe.
He nodded without hesitation. "Okay."
No frustration. No insistence.
Just acceptance.
As he walked away, I told myself I'd done the right thing.
But the truth settled uncomfortably in my chest.
I wanted him to turn back.
And I was afraid of what it would mean if he did.