I don’t know why I keep coming here.

It’s not like I have a routine. I don’t even like coffee that much. But ever since that night, something keeps pulling me back to this café.

Or maybe it’s him.

I don’t know his name. I don’t know much of anything about him, really, except that he works behind the counter, moving through the space like he belongs there. He doesn’t talk more than he has to, but I’ve noticed the small things—how his fingers tap lightly against the register when he’s lost in thought, how his lips part like he wants to say something more but never does.

And the way his eyes seem elsewhere, even when he’s right in front of someone.

I let out a slow breath, staring at my barely touched coffee. I should leave. I should stop doing this—whatever this is. But instead, I reach into my pocket, fingers brushing against the small notepad I always carry.

I don’t think. I just write.

"I'm not sure why I’m leaving this, but I felt like I should—there’s something about you that lingers."

- J

The words sit there, ink drying against bright yellow paper. It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.

But still, I peel the post-it from the pad and press it against the wooden table.

I push back my chair, grab my coat, and walk out before I can change my mind.

I don’t look back.

I don’t check to see if he’s noticed me, if he’s noticed the note.

The cold air stings my face as I step outside, and as I shove my hands into my pockets, it hits me—

I have no idea what I’m expecting.