The next morning, the city greeted me without mercy.
The sun was already high, and the noise from the street below my window felt louder than the night before. I hadn't slept. My mind kept replaying memories I'd sworn I was done with.
I needed air. And coffee.
I slipped into a simple dress, tied my hair back, and stepped outside. The streets were already alive—vendors shouting, cars forcing their way through traffic, people moving with a confidence I didn't have. I found a small café tucked between two buildings. It wasn't fancy, but it felt safe.
I ordered a coffee I could barely pronounce. When I reached into my bag to pay, my fingers froze.
My wallet was gone.
Panic tightened my chest as I searched again. Nothing. Leaving without paying felt wrong, but staying felt worse.
"I can put it back," I told the barista quickly. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine. I'll pay."
The voice came from behind me. I turned.
He was tall, simply dressed, with sharp eyes that seemed to notice everything. He held out his card like this happened every day.
"You don't have to," I said.
"I know," he replied. "But I want to."
Embarrassed, I let him.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
"First days in a new city can be rough," he said.
My eyes widened. "How did you know?"
"You have that look," he said. "Lost, but pretending you're not."
I laughed despite myself.
We sat together, talking about small things—the city, the café, how overwhelming change could be. He didn't ask too much, and somehow that made me feel at ease.
When I finally stood to leave, my chest felt lighter than it had in weeks.
"I owe you," I said.
He met my eyes. "No. Let's call it fate."
I smiled, walking away before I could overthink it.
But deep down, I knew one thing:
I had just met someone who could change everything.