I wasn’t supposed to see it.

I was just walking up to the café like I always do, already reaching for the door, already thinking about what I might write today. But then, I looked up—and there he was.

Standing just a few feet away, leaning against the side of the building, a cigarette pinched between his fingers.

I stopped in my tracks.

I don’t know what it was that caught me off guard—the smoke curling around him, the way his lips parted just slightly before he exhaled, or the simple fact that I never expected this from him.

Maybe that’s what bothered me most.

He never struck me as the type. And I don’t even know what that means, not really. I don’t know enough about him to assume anything, yet the sight of it still sat uneasily in my chest, heavy in a way I didn’t understand.

So I turned around.

I left.

And I don’t know if he ever even noticed.

Now, sitting at my usual table, I hesitate before reaching for my notepad. I should let it go. It’s none of my business. But my pen moves before I can stop it.

"I saw you smoking yesterday before I walked in. I never expected that from you. I don’t know why it bothered me, but it did. So I left."

- J

I press the note down beside my empty cup, exhale slowly, and stand.

This time, as I step outside, I don’t look around for him.

Because if I see him again—if I catch another glimpse of smoke curling from his lips—

I don’t know what I’ll do with that either.