I first noticed him on a Tuesday morning—the kind of morning that feels unfinished, like the world forgot to color it properly.
He sat three rows ahead of me in the café, near the window, his back slightly bent as if he carried thoughts heavier than his coffee. He didn't scroll on his phone like everyone else. He didn't smile either. He just stared outside, watching the rain slide down the glass, completely lost in his own silence.
I don't know why I kept looking.
Maybe because people like him are rare—the ones who seem present but unreachable at the same time.
I was there every morning before work. Same corner table. Same order. Same routine. And yet, I had never seen him before that day. Or maybe I had, and I just never noticed.
That morning, our eyes almost met.
Almost.
He stood up just in time, slipping his coat on, leaving a few coins on the table. As he walked past me, I caught the faint scent of rain and something warm—coffee, maybe. Or something softer. Something human.
He didn't look at me.
And strangely, that bothered me more than if he had.
I told myself it didn't matter. That he was just another stranger in a city full of them. But when he left, the café felt quieter, like a note had gone missing from a familiar song.
The next morning, I came earlier.
I don't know why.
But some part of me hoped the silence would return.