She thought the feeling would fade once she left the café.
It didn't.
The moment she stepped outside, the city felt louder, brighter, more awake than it had moments ago. Cars rushed past, people moved with purpose, and yet she walked slowly, as though part of her had been left behind at the small table near the window.
She hugged her arms around herself, unsure whether the warmth she felt belonged to the afternoon sun or to the memory of him.
His voice lingered in her mind—calm, steady, unhurried. So did the way he had looked at her, as though she were someone worth paying attention to. It had been such a simple meeting. No promises. No exchanged confessions. And yet, her heart felt unsettled, restless in a way she hadn't felt in a long time.
She told herself not to overthink it.
But overthinking had always been her weakness.
On the bus ride home, she caught her reflection in the window and barely recognized the softness in her expression. There was a lightness there, something hopeful that made her uncomfortable. Hope had once been her undoing. She had learned to live carefully, to keep her heart guarded and her expectations low.
And yet, one quiet conversation had managed to slip past her defenses.
At home, the silence greeted her gently. She placed her bag down, kicked off her shoes, and leaned against the door for a moment longer than necessary. Her chest felt tight, not with fear, but with something dangerously close to longing.
She replayed their conversation without meaning to.
The way he had laughed at her dry joke.
The way he had waited when she paused, never rushing her words.
The sincerity in his voice when he said he hoped to see her again.
She shook her head, letting out a quiet breath. "You don't even know him," she reminded herself aloud.
Still, her heart refused to listen.
Later that evening, she curled up on her bed, her phone resting loosely in her hand. She scrolled mindlessly, barely registering what she was seeing. Every few minutes, her thoughts drifted back to him, and she wondered—briefly, foolishly—if he was thinking of her too.
The thought made her smile.
She hadn't realized how much she missed feeling this way. The gentle anticipation. The flutter of curiosity. The soft fear that came with caring a little more than she planned to.
She turned off the light and stared at the ceiling, allowing herself one small indulgence.
What if?
The next morning arrived quietly, bringing with it a sense of determination she wasn't prepared for. She dressed carefully, choosing comfort over intention, and told herself she would not let a stranger occupy so much space in her thoughts.
She failed almost immediately.
The café found its way back into her plans without much resistance. She told herself she needed coffee. That it was on her route. That it meant nothing.
But her heart knew better.
The bell above the café door chimed softly as she stepped inside. Her gaze swept the room instinctively, betraying her before she could stop herself. Relief and disappointment tangled together when she didn't see him.
She chose a different table this time.
She had barely settled in when she heard a familiar voice behind her.
"I was hoping it was you."
Her breath caught.
She turned slowly, afraid that if she moved too quickly, the moment would disappear. But he was there—standing just a few steps away, looking at her with the same gentle smile she hadn't been able to forget.
"I thought I imagined you yesterday," he continued softly. "But I was hoping I wouldn't."
She stood up before she realized she was doing it. "I—hi."
The way he said her greeting back made it sound like something precious.
They sat together again, this time with less hesitation. The nervousness was still there, but it was accompanied by something warmer—familiarity, perhaps, or the comfort of recognition.
"I didn't want to assume," he said, stirring his coffee slowly. "But I kept thinking about our conversation."
Her heart skipped, traitorous and bold. "Me too."
The honesty surprised them both.
They talked longer this time. About dreams that felt too personal to share with most people. About disappointments they had learned to carry quietly. He spoke of patience and second chances, and she listened, realizing how rare it was to meet someone who spoke with intention.
When he looked at her, there was no rush. No expectation. Just presence.
It made her feel safe in a way she hadn't felt in a long time.
"I don't usually do this," he said after a moment, hesitating slightly. "But would you like to have coffee again sometime? Properly planned."
She smiled, warmth blooming in her chest. "I'd like that."
They exchanged contact details, the action simple yet significant. A quiet agreement that this wasn't just chance anymore.
When they parted, it felt different this time.
There was something gentle and promising in the goodbye, something that lingered even as they walked in opposite directions. She felt lighter, steadier, as though her heart had found something it didn't want to let go of just yet.
Later that night, as she lay in bed, her phone buzzed softly.
I'm glad I didn't imagine you,
Goodnight.
She smiled into the darkness, pressing the phone to her chest.
For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to admit the truth she had been avoiding.
Her heart was no longer simply borrowed.
It was waiting.