The barista at the counter offers a distracted smile—
Not her.

Of course not her.

I clear my throat.
“Um. Is… the girl from yesterday here?”
Even the phrasing feels juvenile. Pathetic.

She squints, offers a casual, “Which one?”

I almost walk away. I should walk away.

But I don’t.

“Tall. Ponytail. Wears those boots with the—uh—brass eyelets?”
(Why did I remember that?)
“She was working the counter.”

The barista shrugs. “Kitchen, maybe?”

I nod. Like that’s enough. Like that explains why I feel cracked open.

I slide into a stool by the window. The same seat as before. Not mine. Not really.

In my lap, the notebook itches.

The words I read loop in my brain, haunting.

They always take. They never see. I only keep what I can protect.

It’s not just a note. It’s… a warning?
No. A confession.

And suddenly I want to know everything.

She watches from the narrow crack in the prep hallway.

He asked about her.

The smile she hides is not warm. It's sharp.
Not cruel—only necessary.

The barista didn’t know what to say. Good.
She’s been careful not to become too visible. Not yet.
Let his mind fill the gaps.

She dries her hands slowly. No rush.

He chose the same stool again.
Same awkward posture, one foot tapping, jaw clenched.

She studies the way he cradles the notebook.
He’s already attached. Already wondering.

Inside, she knows exactly which sentence he’s obsessing over.
She underlined it for a reason.

Back in the seat.

Same corner. Same angle. Same storm-tinted light against the glass.

I pretend to look at my phone.
I don’t even unlock it.
My thumb just hovers there—like it’s enough to seem occupied.

The notebook lies flat in front of me. Unthreatening.
But I don’t open it again.

I know if I do, I won’t stop.

What kind of person leaves something like this?
What kind of person reads it and keeps coming back?

I tell myself I’m just curious.

But it’s a lie.

I want to know her.
Or—more truthfully—
I want her to know I noticed.

She steps back onto the floor with quiet purpose, towel in hand, apron speckled faintly from prep.

No need to look toward the window.
She knows where he’s seated.

The barista—Sara—passes her the drink tickets from the last five minutes.
She takes them, smooths them flat, doesn’t glance at the one for Table 9.
(But she already knows it’s his.)

She passes him without pause. Just enough for him to catch her profile.
The silver bindi. The curve of her lashes.

She knows the power of almost.

There. Just for a moment.

She walked past. Didn’t look. Didn’t falter.
Like I’m a stranger in her dream.

And yet—
I feel more seen in that passing moment than I have in months.

The worst part?

She didn’t look at me… but she knew I was looking at her.

A flicker of heat coils low in my spine.

I hate myself for it.

She wipes the marble top with slow, deliberate strokes.
Sara jokes about rain and college boys with bad tips.
She chuckles on cue.

Everything about her is unremarkable.

Except the way her fingers pause on the cloth.
A small signal to herself.

He stayed.
He saw.
He’s still unraveling.

She looks up, and this time lets her eyes meet his.
One second. Two. Just enough.

Then she turns.

She saw me.

God.
Why did that feel like a verdict?

I straighten in my seat, then immediately regret it.

What am I trying to prove?

That I belong here? That I deserve the attention of a girl I don’t even know?

I glance back at the notebook.
Flip a page.

It’s a poem this time.

Short. Untitled.

“There’s a kind of silence
that isn’t empty.
It just hasn’t decided yet
what it wants to become.”

I don’t know if she wrote it.
But I know she wanted me to see it.

And I know I’m not walking away.

That poem always gets them.

She didn’t write it, not originally—but it feels like her.
The version of her he needs to meet first.

Quiet. Clever. Full of questions.

That’s how it begins.
Curiosity always looks like falling.

Rain patters against the glass as I stare at the poem again, the words drifting through my mind like half‑remembered music. I can’t tell whether it’s comforting or unsettling—maybe both. My fingers hover over the leather cover, hesitant, craving more of whatever this is.

Then I hear it: a soft, clear voice carrying across the room.
“Priya!”

My heart jolts. Not the barista behind me—someone else. A coworker calling. But the name… it feels like a signal beacon just for me. My pulse thrums louder than the storm.

I turn, scanning the rows of tables, my eyes searching for her face. A young woman in a green apron waves from the prep station—her back to me. She doesn’t fit the image I’ve constructed in my head. Yet the name echoes.

Could it be her? The girl from yesterday—what do I even call her in my own mind? The poet. The phantom. The one who gives me just enough to chase.

I swallow, stomach tight. I’d give anything to know her name for real. To hear it from her lips, not through someone else’s voice.

He’s looking. She can feel it in the way the light skims his profile, the slight lean of his shoulder toward the pass. Good. He’s curious. He’s close.

She hears her name—familiar, routine—but it carries a new resonance.
A colleague’s cheerful call: “Priya! The delivery’s here, coming through!”

She sets down the tray of tarts she’s been plating, the porcelain cool beneath her palm. The mundane task becomes part of the performance: the gracious host, the diligent baker, the friendly face of Monsoon Café.

With one fluid motion, she steps out from behind the pass, smoothing her apron and tilting her chin up. “Thank you,” she says, voice warm enough to make the helper smile. She takes the clipboard, signs for the boxes without breaking eye contact.

All the while, she knows he’s watching. He’s trying to piece together who “Priya” is, tethering that name to the mystery she’s woven.

The girl behind the counter—Priya—moves with casual grace. She takes the clipboard, exchanges a few words, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Every gesture is effortless. Effortless, and infuriatingly intimate.

I should rise. Walk over. Claim a moment of her time. Ask about the notebook, her name, anything. But my feet feel rooted to the floor.

Instead, I watch as she returns behind the counter, aligning the pastry display, smoothing a stray breadcrumb into a neat row. An ordinary action, but in context, it pulses with significance. She does these small things with care—everything she does is deliberate, even this.

My hand tightens on the poem’s page. The coffee grows cold, forgotten. I wonder if she planned for me to see her exchange with the delivery clerk—to plant her name in my mind like an anchor.

A storm cloud shadows her movement, the thunder softening as if waiting for my next thought.