I told myself not to think about him.
That was the rule. That was always the rule.
Yet by morning, he was already there in the quiet moments between waking and reality, in the pause before I reached for my phone, in the way my chest felt slightly too tight for no reason at all.
I moved through my routine like muscle memory. Shower. Coffee. The familiar walk to work. The city buzzed with its usual impatience, people rushing past with places to be and promises to keep. I blended in easily. I always did.
But something had changed.
Every café I passed reminded me of the way he'd said my name. Every laugh from a stranger made me wonder if it would sound like his. It was ridiculous. I'd known him for less than an hour.
Still, my fingers twitched toward my bag, toward the notebook I carried everywhere. I hadn't written anything last night. Not a single word. Instead, I'd let a stranger rearrange my thoughts without even trying.
At work, my best friend noticed immediately.
"You're quiet," Maya said, leaning against my desk with a knowing look. "And when you're quiet, it usually means something happened."
"Nothing happened," I said too quickly.
She raised an eyebrow. "That's not an answer."
I sighed and finally looked up at her. "I met someone. Briefly. Accidentally. And it meant nothing."
Maya grinned. "Those are usually the ones that mean everything."
I shot her a look. "Don't start."
She laughed and pushed herself upright. "I won't. But for the record, you're smiling."
I wasn't. Or at least, I hadn't meant to be.
The rest of the day dragged. Numbers blurred together. Emails went unread. And every time my phone buzzed, my heart jumped before logic could catch up.
Why would he text me?
I hadn't given him my number.
The realization should have brought relief.
It didn't.
That evening, I found myself back on the same street, standing across from the same café. I told myself it was coincidence. Habit. Comfort.
The lie tasted thin.
Inside, the place looked exactly the same warm lights, soft music, familiar smells. My usual corner table waited for me like nothing had happened.
Except everything had.
I ordered my drink and turned, already knowing what I'd see.
He was there.
Alex sat at the counter again, sleeves rolled up, untouched coffee in front of him. This time, when he noticed me, he smiled slowly like he'd been hoping.
"You came back," he said.
"I always come here," I replied, crossing my arms like that might shield me.
"Still," he said gently. "I'm glad."
I took the seat beside him before I could talk myself out of it.
We didn't ask why we were both there. We didn't pretend it was accidental. The truth hovered between us, unspoken but understood.
"I didn't think I'd see you again," I admitted.
"Neither did I," he said. "But I kept thinking about unfinished conversations."
I swallowed. "We barely started any."
"Exactly."
There it was again that calm confidence. Not pressing. Not demanding. Just present.
That was the problem.
As we talked, the world faded softly into the background. He told me about the city he'd moved from. I told him about the dreams I'd quietly shelved. The things I didn't tell anyone.
The line between stranger and something else blurred.
When our hands brushed accidentally, neither of us pulled away.
I should have.
Instead, I let the moment linger, let the warmth sink in, let myself pretend just for a heartbeat that this could be safe.
But I knew better.
As I stood to leave, I forced distance back between us. "This can't become a habit," I said quietly.
Alex studied me for a moment, then nodded. "I know."
I paused at the door, turning back once. He was watching me, expression unreadable.
Some lines aren't crossed with action.
Some are crossed the moment you stop walking away.
And I knew deep down I'd already crossed mine.