The rain didn’t come that night — for the first time in weeks.

The air was still, heavy with the scent of wet earth and quiet. The world looked paused, as if waiting for something to break the silence.

Devansh sat by the window of his apartment, notebook open, pen hanging loose between his fingers. Words had started to blur together lately — every poem, every short story, somehow led back to her.

He stared at the unfinished page.

“She looked at me like someone remembering the sun — even though she’d sworn she’d forgotten how it felt.”

He sighed, closed the notebook, and smiled faintly. This is getting ridiculous, he thought. You barely know her.

And yet, when the clock struck 11:11, he found himself standing outside the café again.

Same door. Same bell. Same warmth spilling from inside.

She was there — as always — wiping the counter, hair tied loosely, a small strand falling over her cheek.

“You’re early,” she said.

“Or maybe the clock likes me better tonight,” he replied.

She laughed softly — that quiet sound that always seemed to echo longer than it should.

When he sat down, she surprised him.

“Black coffee, no sugar,” she said, placing it down before he even asked.

He blinked. “You really do remember everything, huh?”

“Only the things that matter,” she said without looking up.

Something about that line lingered.

He watched her as she moved — calm, precise, graceful. But there was a sadness underneath, like someone carrying the memory of too many goodbyes.

---

He opened his notebook again, trying to distract himself. But her voice broke the silence.

“Can I read it?”

He froze mid-sentence.

She pointed to the notebook.

“Your stories,” she said. “You write about people, don’t you? About what you see?”

He hesitated. “Sometimes,” he said. “But I don’t think you’d like this one.”

“Try me.”

Reluctantly, he slid the notebook across the table. She took it gently — fingers brushing the edges like something fragile.

Her eyes moved over the lines.

He noticed how her expression shifted — a tiny crease forming between her brows, then softening again.

When she looked up, there was something different in her eyes — something that made him hold his breath.

“You wrote me,” she said quietly.

He opened his mouth to deny it, but she smiled — a sad, knowing smile. “You don’t have to say it. I can tell.”

“Was it too much?” he asked.

She shook her head. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “But… dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

Her gaze dropped to the page again. “Because when people start writing about things they don’t understand, the world tries to make them forget.”

He frowned. “What does that even mean?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she traced her fingertip over one of his lines — the ink slightly smudged beneath her touch.

“Do you believe,” she asked softly, “that some words can see deeper than eyes?”

He stared at her — really stared.

There it was again, that subtle pull between curiosity and fear.

“Maybe,” he said finally. “But only when someone wants to be seen.”

Her eyes met his — cold, silver-grey, with a light that didn’t belong to any lamp.

For a moment, he thought he saw something ancient behind them. A reflection of the night itself.

The clock ticked softly in the background. 11:49.

She closed the notebook and slid it back toward him. “Keep writing,” she said. “Even if you don’t understand yet.”

When he left that night, he noticed something strange — his page number had changed.

He’d stopped at page 42, but now it read 43, filled with a single unfamiliar sentence written in her handwriting:

“You’re closer than you think.”