I told myself I wouldn't look for him.
That the café was just a café.That people don't disappear into your life just because they bought you coffee once.
Still, my feet took me there three days later.
Same time. Same corner table.Different weather.
The rain was gone, but the quiet stayed.
I ordered my usual and opened my book, pretending I wasn't scanning the room. Pretending my heart didn't lift slightly every time the door opened.
Then he walked in.
No rush. No umbrella.Like he'd been expected.
Our eyes met again — not surprised this time.
He smiled first.
"You came back," he said, as if it meant something.
"So did you," I replied.
He nodded. "I wasn't sure I would."
That sentence settled between us, heavy for such a simple thing.
He took the seat across from me without asking.
"I'm Noah," he said.
"Aira."
He repeated my name slowly, like he was testing how it felt.I didn't tell him I liked the way he said it.
"I owe you coffee," I added.
"You don't owe me anything," he replied gently.
That word again — gently — like he handled people the way you handle things that might break.
We talked more this time. Still not about important things. Still careful.But conversation with him felt like exhaling after holding my breath too long.
He listened. Really listened.
When I spoke, he didn't interrupt or wait for his turn. He watched my face, like my words mattered more than the sound of them.
Most people don't do that.
"You look like someone who thinks too much," he said at one point.
I smiled. "You look like someone who avoids thinking."
He laughed quietly. "I used to."
Used to.
There it was again — the sense that he was standing somewhere past the present, looking back.
When I asked what he did for work, he hesitated.
"Nothing permanent," he said.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I don't like planting roots where I won't stay."
My chest tightened, though I didn't know why.
"Do you move a lot?" I asked.
"Yes."
"By choice?"
He met my eyes.
"Sometimes."
We fell silent after that.
It wasn't uncomfortable — just full.
I checked the time and realized hours had passed.
"I should go," I said, standing.
"So should I," he replied, but didn't move.
Outside, the streetlights flickered on. The sky had turned the color of endings.
"I'll see you around," I said.
He studied me for a moment, then asked softly, "Do you want to?"
The honest answer scared me.
"Yes," I said anyway.
He smiled — not relieved, not excited — just quietly pleased.
"Then I will."
As I walked away, I felt it — that subtle shift inside me.The beginning of something I hadn't planned for.
I didn't know his story.I didn't ask why he felt temporary.
But that night, lying in bed, his words replayed in my mind:
I don't like planting roots where I won't stay.
And for the first time in a long while, I wondered what it would feel liketo let someone stay anyway.