The café was loud in the way only city cafés could be — clinking cups, conversations overlapping, the hiss of the espresso machine cutting through it all. Ethan sat hunched over his laptop at the corner table, pretending to write but mostly just scrolling through the same half-finished paragraph he'd typed yesterday.
He hated working in public, but Maya had practically shoved him out the door this morning with a "go breathe actual air before you rot."
Now here he was. Surrounded by people who all looked like they had their lives together.
He was on the verge of packing up when he heard a soft laugh. Not the loud, sharp kind — but low, like it wasn't meant to carry. Still, it did. It carried straight to him.
He glanced up.
She was standing at the counter, dark hair falling over one shoulder, wearing a cream coat that somehow made her look both elegant and untouchable. The barista said something, and she laughed again — the same quiet sound, like a secret shared.
Ethan realized he was staring. He looked back at his screen, but the cursor blinked, the same stubborn silence. For some reason, he looked up again — and this time, she was looking at him.
Their eyes met. Just for a second. But long enough for Ethan to feel caught.
She carried her coffee toward the only empty seat left in the café. Of course, it was at his table.
"Mind if I sit?" she asked. Her voice was smooth, steady.
Ethan hesitated, then gestured at the chair. "Sure. Yeah. Go ahead."
She set her cup down and slid into the seat across from him. A faint scent of jasmine drifted across the table. He tried not to notice.
"Working?" she asked, nodding toward his laptop.
"That's a generous way to put it," he said.
She smiled. "Writer?"
Ethan gave a short laugh. "Supposed to be."
"Supposed to be?"
He tapped the lid of the laptop, debating whether to make a joke or tell the truth. Finally, he said, "It's been a while since anything decent came out of this thing. Starting to think maybe it was a one-time miracle."
Instead of offering polite sympathy, she tilted her head, studying him like she was genuinely curious. "And you're okay with that?"
The question caught him off guard. "No," he said quickly. "Not even close."
Her smile widened just a little. "Good."
Ethan frowned. "Why good?"
"Because giving up isn't attractive," she said simply. Then she sipped her coffee like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
He stared at her for a moment, unsure what to say. Most people either pitied him or told him to move on. Nobody challenged him like that.
"What about you?" he asked finally. "What do you do?"
She paused, setting her cup down. "I… read," she said. "Mostly."
"That's not a job."
"It can be," she said, a glint in her eyes. "Depends who you're married to."
Ethan blinked, thrown by the casual mention. Married. The word landed heavy, though she said it like a joke. Before he could ask more, her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, and something flickered across her face — irritation? sadness? He couldn't tell.
"I should go," she said, gathering her things. Then, as if on impulse, she reached into her bag, pulled out a small notebook, and scribbled something. She tore the page and slid it across the table.
"For when you feel like writing again," she said.
Ethan looked down. A phone number.
When he looked up, she was already gone, the bell above the café door chiming softly as it closed behind her.
He sat there, staring at the piece of paper in his hand.
For the first time in months, Ethan felt like maybe — just maybe — he had something worth writing about.