The next night, he didn’t even pretend it was a coincidence.

Devansh parked across the café, watching the faint blue sign hum in the misty air like a heartbeat.

He walked in quietly. The bell chimed its usual fragile note — and there she was again.

The same calm expression. The same soft, moonlit aura.

“Back again?” she asked, arranging the cups on the counter.

He shrugged lightly. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe the coffee here is addictive.”

She glanced up, the corner of her lips lifting just enough to show amusement.

“Or maybe you’re just curious.”

He smiled. “About what?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she leaned slightly on the counter, looking at him as though measuring a thought.

“Writers don’t come to cafés three nights in a row just for caffeine.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re not easy to fool, are you?”

“I work nights,” she said simply. “People talk. I listen.”

Devansh took a seat at his usual corner. “So what do people talk about at midnight cafés?”

She turned toward the espresso machine. “Mostly regrets.”

Then, after a pause, she added, “And wishes they’re too scared to make.”

He smiled faintly, something distant stirring in his chest.

“Funny,” he said softly. “Someone once told me 11:11 was the only minute wishes really listened.”

Her hand stilled mid-motion. Just for a second.

“Do you still believe that?” she asked.

“I used to,” he said. “Before that someone stopped showing up.”

She turned away, but her voice was almost a whisper now.

“Maybe they didn’t stop showing up. Maybe you just stopped looking.”

He looked at her for a long moment. The way she said it — quiet, unguarded — made something stir in him.

“You sound like you’ve heard a lot of those,” he said softly.

“I’ve lived long enough to,” she replied. Then realizing what she’d said, she froze slightly — as if she’d said too much.

Devansh caught it. But instead of pressing, he smiled gently. “Guess nights don’t scare you.”

Her expression softened — maybe at his tone, maybe at the fact that he didn’t question her slip.

“They used to,” she murmured. “Not anymore.”

He noticed then — a faint mark on her wrist, like a burn that shimmered under the café’s golden light. When she moved, it looked almost like a number.

11:11.

He blinked, but before he could speak, she’d tucked her hand away.

He grinned. “That’s rare. Most people are scared of what they can’t see.”

She met his eyes. “And you? What scares you?”

He thought for a moment before replying, “The blank page.”

That made her laugh — a soft, genuine sound that didn’t belong to the night but somehow brightened it.

He didn’t say anything after that. He just watched as she turned away, still smiling.

It wasn’t the kind of smile that faded when the light changed.

It was the kind that stayed — quietly, somewhere between memory and meaning.

Later, when he wrote that night, he began his page with a single line:

Some smiles are like stars — you don’t need to see them to know they’re there.