The cafe buzzed louder than usual, that chaotic mix of espresso machines, chattering strangers, and the soft percussion of rain starting outside. Arin sat tucked into his favorite corner, laptop open, cursor blinking like it was threatening him. He was supposed to be working on a poem, but inspiration was slippery today.
Then the door opened, and she walked in.
Thick sweater hugging generous curves, glossy hair pinned up with a pencil, a notebook clutched to her chest like a secret she wasn’t ready to share. Her presence carried the kind of confidence people wish they had. She scanned the cafe once, then made her way toward him.
“Is this seat taken?” she asked, eyes warm, voice steady.
Arin shook his head quickly. “No, go ahead.”
She slid into the chair across from him, exhaling as if the whole day had been chasing her.
“Every time I come here, it’s like the universe forgets what silence is.”
Arin laughed softly. “Coffee’s still worth it.”
“That’s debatable,” she said, pushing a strand of hair away from her cheek. “But I keep coming back anyway.”
She glanced at his screen. “Are you writing something?”
“Trying to,” he said. “A poem.”
Her eyebrows rose, amused. “You don’t look like a poet.”
“What do poets look like?”
“Sad. Dramatic. Probably wearing a tragic amount of black,” she teased. “Not… you.”
He hesitated, then decided to risk honesty. “What do you write?”
Her fingers tapped her notebook. “Stories. My name’s Mira.”
“Arin,” he said.
And just like that, something warm settled between them.
The conversation flowed easily - books, weird writing habits, tech jokes she didn’t fully understand but pretended to. Every time she laughed, she leaned closer. Every time he teased her, she pretended to be offended and then grinned.
At some point, she nodded toward his laptop.
“Read me one line.”
Arin froze. Poetry was personal. Too personal.
But something about her gaze disarmed him.
He cleared his throat and read softly, barely above a whisper:
Mira’s expression softened—just a fraction.
“Arin… that’s beautiful.”
He shrugged awkwardly. “It’s… just words.”
“No,” she said. “That’s someone’s heartbeat disguised as a sentence.”
A silence settled, heavy but comfortable.
A different kind of tension, slow and warm.
When the cafe got too loud, she glanced at the door.
“I should head out. If I don’t leave now, I’ll rewrite the same paragraph ten times.”
Arin stood as she gathered her things.
“You could show me your writing sometime.”
“Maybe,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
Her smile turned teasing. “If you’re brave enough to handle it.”
Outside, the rain had slowed. Streetlamps glowed softly on the wet pavement.
She stepped out, then faced him again.
“I had fun,” Mira said, voice lower now - almost intimate.
“Me too.”
“Next time,” she murmured, biting her lip lightly, “let’s meet somewhere quieter.”
“Where?”
“You’ll see.”
And with that, she turned and walked into the soft drizzle, her silhouette disappearing around the corner.
Arin didn’t even pretend to return to his poem.
His mind was full of Mira now - her laugh, her gaze, the warmth of her presence.
And somewhere in him, another line of poetry started forming.
... Chapter 2
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