She learned to smile before anyone asked if she was okay.
Not because she was fine, of course.
But because it was easier.
Smiling was like putting on a coat. It covered you. Not from the cold, but from people.
That day, she was in a small café, the kind that smells like toasted bread and burnt coffee. It wasn't the best place in the world, but it was quiet. And for her, that was already enough.
She sat at the table in the back, the usual one, pressed against the wall. From there, she could see the door, the counter, the window… everything. It was a habit no one noticed, but it calmed her.
She ordered the same thing as always, even though she didn't really feel like it. Then she took out her phone, but didn't open anything in particular. She just held it, as if that made her look busy.
As if being "busy" could protect her.
That was when she saw him.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't like in stories where everything suddenly stops.
She just… noticed him.
A guy sitting a couple of tables away. He had a laptop in front of him, but he wasn't using it. He was staring into nothing, like his mind was somewhere else. Like he was tired without having done anything.
She didn't know why, but the image caught her attention.
Maybe because she stared into nothing too, sometimes. Only she did it in her room, when no one was watching.
He lifted his gaze suddenly.
Their eyes met.
And that was when it felt strange.
Not intense. Not romantic. Just uncomfortable—like when someone looks at you for too long and you don't know what face to make.
She thought about looking away first, but she didn't. Not out of pride. Her body just stayed still, as if it were waiting for something.
He was the one who looked away.
She let out her breath slowly, as if she hadn't realized she was holding it.
"Okay," she told herself. "That's it. Nothing happened."
But her pulse was already a little faster.
She looked back at her phone, pretending to read, when in reality she was just listening to the sounds around her: teaspoons clinking, the coffee machine, a couple of laughs in the distance.
After a while, she stood up to leave. She didn't like staying too long. She never did.
As she passed by his table, she accidentally brushed against the chair.
"Sorry," he said, moving it slightly.
His voice was low. Normal.
She stopped.
"It's okay," she replied, and smiled.
The automatic smile. The one that always worked.
But he didn't stop there.
He looked up again, studying her as if he were trying to understand something. Not in a flattering way. In a direct way. Like he was waiting for something.
She tensed without meaning to.
"You don't look like someone nothing ever happens to," he said.
She froze.
The sentence wasn't rude, but it hit her anyway. Because it sounded like something that shouldn't be said out loud.
"Do you think so?" she asked, trying to sound casual.
He looked at her for another second.
"I think you fake it really well," he said.
Silence.
She felt a knot form in her throat, but she hid it quickly. Like always. And the worst part was that she wasn't even angry. She was… nervous.
"Do you always say things like that to strangers?" she asked, more out of defense than curiosity.
He shrugged slightly.
"No," he said. "Only when… I recognize them."
That was what left her cold.
"When I recognize them."
Recognize what?
Her?
She felt the urge to leave immediately, to walk out fast and not look back. But she stayed two seconds longer, because sometimes your body does that when it doesn't know what to do.
"Well," she said, adjusting her bag, "have a nice afternoon."
"You too," he replied.
She walked toward the door without turning around.
But when she stepped outside, the air hit her face and she realized she was breathing oddly, like she had been running—though she hadn't.
As she walked, she thought:
"That was strange."
Not "nice."
Not "romantic."
Strange.
And that was what scared her.
Because she had spent a long time controlling her days. Controlling her expressions. Controlling what she showed. And in less than a minute, a stranger had said something that felt far too close to the truth.
Back in the café, he stayed seated.
He looked at his laptop as if he were about to write something, but he didn't. He just stared at the dark screen, thinking.
He wasn't comfortable either.
Because it wasn't normal to say something like that.
It wasn't normal to talk to someone that way.
But he had done it anyway.
And now, for the first time in a long while, he felt something strange in his chest.
Like something had shifted.
Not hope.
Not love.
Something smaller… and more dangerous.
The feeling that the encounter hadn't been a coincidence.
And she, while crossing the street, thought the same thing.
Not because she wanted to.
But because she felt it.