"Some silences scream louder than words. And some? Some feel like prayers you didn't know you were whispering."
Nairobi, Kenya
April 4th , 7:42 a.m.
I wasn't supposed to go back.
Honestly, I told myself I wouldn't. That I was overthinking it. That it was just a moment, a stranger, a shared glance across chipped porcelain and worn wooden tables. And still… there I was. The same café. Same corner table. Same weak cappuccino.
My fingers curled around the mug, half-hoping the ceramic would ground me. I told myself I just needed a place to write.
But that wasn't the whole truth.
I was waiting.
Not in a desperate, rom-com kind of way. Not with fluttery feelings or wide-eyed hope. Just… a quiet sort of curiosity. Like I'd opened a book and couldn't walk away before reading the next line.
The door chimed behind me.
I didn't look up right away.
I sipped slowly.
Waited.
Then glanced over the rim of my mug.
He was there.
D.K.
Wearing a grey hoodie this time, sleeves pushed up, notebook under one arm again. He didn't scan the room,he looked straight at me. Like he knew I'd be here. Like he hadn't questioned it.
He gave a half-smile.
I returned it.
Small. Honest.
He ordered his coffee, then made his way to the same table as yesterday. The one across from mine. Again,he didn't ask. He just sat.
As if he belonged there.
As if I did too.
7:50 a.m.
"Good morning," he said.
His voice was smooth. Low. Like the edge of a song before the lyrics kick in.
"Morning," I replied, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.
He sipped his long black.
We sat in the familiar silence, the kind that didn't feel like a gap but a bridge. It wasn't awkward. It was... intentional.
I pulled out my journal, more for something to do than anything profound.
"You're a writer," he said, nodding toward the journal.
I looked up. "Is it that obvious?"
He smirked. "Writers always look like they're talking to people no one else can see."
I raised an eyebrow. "And what do you do? Besides mysteriously watch strangers and drink very bitter coffee?"
He shrugged, looking amused. "I listen."
"To what?"
"To the space between things."
I blinked. "You're insufferable."
He laughed softly. "You asked."
8:12 a.m.
We didn't exchange names. Not yet.
But we talked.
Little things. Gentle things.
Books. Old movies. The difference between silence and stillness. I found myself leaning in,not physically, but emotionally. Something about him made me want to talk slower. Think deeper. Be more honest than I usually allowed myself to be.
I asked him what the D.K. stood for.
He paused. "One day."
It didn't frustrate me. Somehow, I respected it. I'd learned that people reveal themselves when they're ready. Not when you want them to.
8:34 a.m.
"You always write in that journal?" he asked.
"Only when I can't breathe," I answered, before realizing how much that gave away.
He didn't flinch.
"Then keep writing," he said. "Breathing's important."
Something warm fluttered under my ribs. I didn't know if it was attraction, or relief, or simply the realization that I'd found someone who didn't rush to fix me.
Just… saw me.
A Year Ago
I remembered sitting on my childhood bedroom floor, the night my brother told me I felt "too much." That I made everything into a poem. That I exhausted people with how deeply I saw the world.
"You'll scare them off," he said.
I wonder what he'd say now,seeing someone lean closer instead of away.
8:51 a.m.
"I should head to class," I said, reluctantly glancing at my phone.
He nodded, no pressure in his eyes. "Same time tomorrow?"
It wasn't a demand. Not even an invitation. Just a thread, offered gently.
I smiled. "Maybe."
But even as I walked out, I already knew the answer.
Later ,11:05 a.m., Lecture Hall
I couldn't focus. Not really.
The professor's words blurred into white noise. My mind replayed our conversation on loop. Not because it was romantic or intense,but because it was real.
It's strange how rare real is.
I opened my voice recorder app. Pressed record.
"There's this guy. He talks like he has all the time in the world. And I hate how much I notice that. But also… maybe I needed to."
I didn't save it.
Just let the words go.
Sometimes saying them was enough.
D.K. sat at the same café after I left. Sipped the last of his long black. Scribbled in his notebook.
"She has eyes like winter storms. And a mouth that looks like it forgot how to lie. I wonder what she's survived."
He closed the journal, the page still warm from ink.
"It wasn't love. Not yet. But it was something. And that something was starting to feel like a sound I'd been waiting to hear,soft, slow, and impossible to forget."