Today felt like the day.
She'd been trying for weeks to gather the courage to speak to him, but he never came regularly. Their timings were always just a little off—either she arrived too early or he showed up after she'd already left. And when he did come, she never quite found the nerve. He felt unpredictable, like a comet passing through her orbit—too rare, too fleeting. She couldn't count on him being there again.
But today, she had to do something. Anything.
Her family had gone on a trip, and since she couldn't join them, she told herself she'd make something of the day. Something worthwhile. Even if it scared her.
The morning began messily—her chai cup slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor, tea spilling in soft brown streaks across the tiles. But she forced herself to stay calm. There was resolve under her skin. Winter had wrapped the day in a quiet chill, and she wore her favorite coat—the one that had earned compliments at last week's event. It made her feel composed. Presentable. The rest was up to her.
When she arrived at the library, he was already there. She hadn't planned to sit near him but the lower floor was full, and the only seat left was across from him. The very idea made her nervous, but she wanted to be at a place where she could see him, so she sat right across him—heart racing—separated by a divider that shielded their faces. She could see his shoes under the table, small details, but enough to confirm his presence. Enough to anchor her there.
She sat quietly, pretending to read, thoughts spiraling. How would she begin? What could she say? Her pulse thudded with every passing second.
Then—suddenly—he got up and left.
She froze. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched him walk away. His things were still there, so she knew he'd return, but the uncertainty gnawed at her. What if he didn't? What if she waited too long again?
A friend she'd once liked had stopped coming altogether—disappearing without warning—and she didn't want history to repeat itself. Not with this one. Not when she had come so far just to be near him.
In desperation, she texted her friend. She needed help. Her friend, ever the enabler of her quiet obsessions, offered a daring idea: write a note. Keep it simple. Leave a number—maybe her brother's. Just enough to leave a trace. And if she could, gather some information. A name, perhaps. Anything to make him feel less like a dream.
But she came up empty. She couldn't find any details about him. None at all.
To pass time, she moved to the entrance hall with a book of Rumi's poetry. It was the perfect spot—just close enough to see her previous seat, just far enough to seem casual. She read without really reading, eyes lifting every now and then to check if he'd returned.
Then the library director spotted her and invited her to a session—a stress management workshop happening just down the corridor. She hadn't known it was taking place. At first, she hesitated. But the waiting was starting to ache. So she nodded, promised she'd come.
Before she left, she went back to their table. Wrote the note. Slipped it into the pages of his notebook. Then walked away.
The room was almost empty by the time she arrived at the session. That, in itself, felt awkward. She hovered in the doorway, unsure if she should enter.
And then—she saw him.
Sitting in the front row, his profile lit by the soft glow of a projector.
In that moment, the entire day—the chai cup, the silence, the waiting, the note—felt like it had led to this. Like maybe, just maybe, the universe had aligned something after all.