Elena hadn't expected to see him again.
The city was large enough, crowded with people whose lives crossed once and then disappeared into the blur of memory. That night at the bookstore should have been just that a fleeting moment, tucked away like a pressed flower in the back of her mind, beautiful but temporary.
But two days later, she saw him again.
She had taken her usual seat at the little cafe on Seventh, the one with the chipped blue tables and the scent of cinnamon always clinging to the air. It wasn't much to look at, but to Elena, it was a sanctuary. She came there often with her notebook, scribbling down half formed poems, little fragments of thought she wasn't brave enough to share with anyone. That day, though, the words refused to come. Her pen tapped a restless rhythm against the blank page, mirroring the unsettled feeling inside her, she was just restless!
"Is this seat taken?"
The voice startled her. She looked up, and her heart skipped. Adrian stood there, framed by the doorway, a faint drizzle still clinging to his jacket. His hair was as unruly as she remembered, a few strands falling loose across his forehead, and his eyes held that same searching quality, as if he were putting together puzzles no one else could see.
Her lips curved before she could stop herself. "I suppose not."
He slid into the seat across from her, setting a book on the table. She recognized it instantly—The Stars and Their Stories.
"I figured I should give it a proper read after all," he said with a small smile. "It felt… unfinished, leaving it behind."
Elena tilted her head, amused and intrigued. "So fate brought you back to the stars."
"Or fate brought me back here," he countered gently, his gaze holding hers.
For a moment, the hum of the cafe faded away. The clinking cups, the hiss of the espresso machine, the soft murmur of conversations all of it seemed to blur into the background. The world narrowed until it was just the two of them, tethered by something invisible, a thread pulling tighter.
Their conversation began simply, as most do. Adrian asked about the notebook she kept, and she confessed somewhat shyly that she wrote poetry, though she rarely shared it. He told her about his work as a photographer, how he wandered the city chasing fragments of beauty through his lens.
"You must see the world differently," Elena said.
Adrian shrugged. "I try to see it closely. Most people look, but they don't really see. The camera forces me to notice the small things—the curve of light on glass, the way shadows bend."
Something about the way he spoke made her chest tighten. She wondered if he looked at her that way too with that same careful attention, as if she were something worth noticing.
Time slipped by unnoticed. They moved from coffee to tea, from stories of favorite books to half forgotten childhood memories. Elena found herself laughing in a way she hadn't in weeks, the kind of laughter that loosened something deep inside her.
At one point, Adrian pulled his camera from his bag and scrolled through a few images, pausing on one. He turned it toward her.
The screen glowed with a photograph of the night sky, stars scattered like spilled diamonds over the river. The city lights shimmered faintly at the edges, but it was the vastness of the sky that held her still.
Her breath caught. "It looks like a painting."
"It's better in person," Adrian said softly, watching her reaction. "Maybe I'll show you sometime."
Her heart gave a quiet stutter at the unspoken invitation. The thought of standing beside him, looking up at that same sky, sent warmth flooding through her. She looked down quickly, tracing the rim of her mug with her fingertip.
"Maybe," she said, though her voice was softer than she intended.
When she looked up again, Adrian was still watching her, and for a fleeting second, it felt like gravity itself had shifted—like she was being pulled, not against her will, but toward something inevitable.
The rain outside slowed to a drizzle, but neither of them moved to leave. Time, it seemed, was in no rush to separate them.
And Elena realized, with a start, that some encounters weren't meant to fade like pressed flowers. Some were beginnings, written in the stars