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She saw him again—tall, composed, his presence impossible to ignore—but nothing about him triggered a memory. His smile was familiar, yet her mind drew a blank. There was no spark of recognition, no name surfacing, just a strange warmth she couldn't explain.
He didn't seem surprised that she didn't remember him.
"Hi," he said softly, as if he'd been rehearsing the word for days.
"Hi," she replied, her voice cautious.
There was a silence between them, but it wasn't awkward—it was comfortable. He watched her with eyes that held stories she hadn't yet read. His words were careful, but his gaze said more than he let on.
He didn't try to remind her who he was. Instead, he just talked—about the weather, about the city, about things that made her laugh lightly. And each time they spoke, her guard lowered a little more.
She didn't know why, but with him, she didn't feel the need to hide.
What she didn't know was that he already knew her deeply—her fears, her silence, her strength beneath the quiet. He wasn't there to chase her memory. He was there to stay.
He found comfort in being near her, even if she didn't remember. He found peace in her presence, even if she couldn't explain why she kept thinking of him after he left.
To her, he was a stranger.
To him, she was everything.
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