She couldn't stop thinking about him that night.
Not because she wanted to.
Not even because she liked him.
It was more like when a song gets stuck in your head without asking permission. No matter how hard you try to distract yourself, it comes back on its own. And it's annoying.
She stayed in the shower longer than usual, as if the water could wash away the strange feeling that had settled in her chest. She looked at herself in the mirror while drying her hair and practiced her smile. The same one as always. The one she used when someone asked how she was doing.
It worked.
Almost.
She lay down on the bed with her phone in her hand, but she didn't open social media. She didn't feel like seeing anyone else's life. She didn't want to talk to anyone either. So she opened some random app, scrolled without really looking, and closed it again after a few seconds.
She sighed.
"It was just a weird guy in a café," she murmured to herself.
But it didn't sound convincing.
What bothered her wasn't what he had said. It was how easily he had said it. As if seeing through her act had been so obvious that he hadn't even needed to think about it.
That was what hurt.
She turned onto her side and turned off the light. It took her a while to fall asleep.
He didn't sleep well either.
Not because he was anxious.
But because he couldn't stop replaying the scene over and over in his head.
The café.
The chair.
The way she had smiled before leaving.
He blamed himself more than once.
"You went too far."
"You had no right."
"It wasn't your place."
All of it was true.
And still, he didn't regret it completely.
There was something about her that had felt… familiar. Not in a pleasant way. Not like when you meet someone and immediately like them. It was something else. More uncomfortable.
Like accidentally looking into a mirror.
He opened his laptop and wrote two lines. Deleted them. Wrote two more. Left them there for a few seconds, then erased those too.
He closed the laptop with a little more force than necessary.
"Idiot," he muttered.
He stared at the ceiling until sleep finally took him.
The next morning, she went back to the same café.
Not because she expected to see him.
She told herself that several times while walking there.
It was just routine. The café was close. She liked the table in the back. She liked not having to talk to anyone.
That was all.
She walked in, glanced around without really meaning to… and didn't see him.
She felt something like relief.
And something like disappointment.
She sat down, ordered the usual, and took out her phone. This time she actually opened something, just to keep her hands busy. While she waited, she thought maybe she had exaggerated. That it didn't make sense to obsess over a comment from a stranger.
When the coffee arrived, she was distracted.
She didn't notice until someone sat down at the table next to hers.
She didn't have to look to know it was him.
She knew by the way the atmosphere seemed to tense all at once. As if the air had suddenly grown heavier.
She lifted her gaze slowly.
There he was.
He didn't smile.
He didn't look surprised.
He just looked at her as if he had been waiting… without knowing exactly for what.
"Hi," he said.
She blinked.
"Hi," she replied, a second too late.
Silence.
She shifted slightly in her chair. He adjusted his. Neither of them seemed to know what to do with their hands.
"I didn't think you'd come back," he said.
She frowned slightly.
"Why not?"
He shrugged.
"Because people usually avoid what makes them uncomfortable."
She wasn't sure whether that was a comment or a criticism. Maybe both.
"Maybe it didn't make me that uncomfortable," she said.
She wasn't sure if it was true, but the words came out anyway.
He watched her closely. Not her face. Her gestures. The way she played with her cup. The nervous movement of her leg.
"Or maybe it made you too uncomfortable," he said, "and you came anyway."
She went still.
"Do you always analyze people like that?" she asked.
"No," he replied. "Only when I care."
The words hung between them.
Her stomach twisted.
"That's strange," she said.
"Yeah," he admitted. "It is."
They stayed quiet for a few more seconds. It wasn't a comfortable silence, but it wasn't unpleasant either. It felt like they were both measuring how much they could say without crossing some invisible line.
"I—" he started, then stopped. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be rude yesterday."
She looked at him carefully.
"You weren't rude," she said. "Just… direct."
"Sometimes it's the same thing," he replied.
She smiled a little. This time it wasn't completely automatic.
"Sometimes."
He took a sip of his coffee. It was too hot. He made a small face.
"Do you come here often?" she asked.
A simple question.
"Yeah," he said. "I like that no one bothers me."
"Me too."
They looked at each other again. This time, neither of them looked away right away.
"I'm Iris," she said. "Well… you can call me that."
She didn't give her full name. She didn't see the need.
He nodded.
"I'm Ethan…"
He said his name.
She repeated it silently, as if she wanted to make sure she remembered it.
"Nice to meet you," she said.
"You too."
They didn't shake hands. They didn't stand up. They didn't do anything that felt like a formal beginning.
And still, something had started.
They talked a little more. Simple things. The weather. The coffee. The noise from the street. Nothing important. Nothing personal.
Sometimes, one of them said something they probably shouldn't have.
"You don't like being watched," he said at one point.
"No," she admitted. "It makes me feel exposed."
"Interesting," he said. "Because you watch people a lot."
She didn't deny it.
"I guess it's easier to look than to be looked at."
He nodded slowly.
"Yeah. It is."
When they stood up to leave, it wasn't at the same time. She first. Then him. They met again near the door.
"Well…" she said. "Thanks for the coffee."
"I didn't pay for it," he said.
"Then thanks for the conversation."
He smiled.
"You're welcome."
They left together, but didn't walk in the same direction.
Before they parted, he spoke.
"Hey."
She turned around.
"You don't fake it as well as you think."
She looked at him for a long second.
"And you," she said, "aren't as indifferent as you pretend to be."
They looked at each other. Neither of them smiled.
Then they went their separate ways.
She walked several blocks before realizing she was smiling.
Not a big smile.
A small one. Uneasy.
She wasn't happy.
She was alert.
And that felt dangerous.
He, on the other hand, got home with a strange feeling. He opened his laptop. This time, he didn't close it. He wrote several lines without deleting them.
It wasn't about her.
But it wasn't not about her either.
As he wrote, he thought:
"This is a bad idea."
And still, he kept going.
Because some things, once they start, don't ask for permission.