The morning arrives softly, as if the sky has decided not to wake the world too quickly. Rain taps against the window in a steady rhythm — not loud, not demanding, just persistent enough to be noticed.

Streets that are usually impatient now seem thoughtful, washed clean and moving slower. I stand by the window for a moment longer than necessary, watching raindrops race each other down the glass. The air is cool, carrying that unmistakable scent — wet earth, damp leaves, something fresh and new. It’s the kind of morning that makes staying in bed tempting… but leaving the house feel like an adventure.

A café comes to mind without effort. Not just any café — the warm one on the corner with fogged-up windows and soft yellow lights. I can almost hear the gentle clink of ceramic cups, the low murmur of conversations blending with the hiss of the espresso machine. Inside, time would move differently. Slower. Kinder.

I choose a seat by the window, of course, where you could watch umbrellas drift past like moving flowers.

Outside: gray, wet, restless.

Inside: warm, brown, and calm.

A cup of coffee between my hands, steam rising in lazy spirals, would feel less like a drink and more like a pause button.

The café was full of soft noise — clinking cups, low conversations, the hiss of the coffee machine — but somehow, I still felt alone in the middle of it. I stirred my coffee absently, though the sugar had long dissolved, my eyes drifting again and again to the couple sitting by the window.

They were close, leaning toward each other like the rest of the world didn’t exist. She laughed at something he said, brushing his hand with hers, and the simple ease between them tugged at something deep in my chest.

And just like that, I was somewhere else.

Back there.

Back then.

I still remembered it was just like this , same rainy morning the day we met — sudden, unplanned, like two storylines crashing into each other. I hadn’t been looking for anything. I was in a hurry, mind full, eyes distracted… The road was very slippery and then I bumped into you.

Your hand had steadied me before I could lose balance, warm and firm at my arm. I remember the way we both started talking at the same time, then stopped, then laughed — awkward, surprised, but already caught in something neither of us understood yet. There had been a strange pause after, a moment too long for strangers, where we just looked at each other like we’d almost recognised something.

That was the beginning. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just a quiet spark in an ordinary moment.

That first meeting should have ended there — a polite smile, a quick apology, two strangers walking in opposite directions.

But it didn’t.

You’d said, “Wait,” like the word had slipped out before you could stop it. I turned, half-expecting you to ask for directions or point out something I’d dropped. Instead, you just looked at me, slightly breathless, like you were surprising yourself.

“I feel like… I shouldn’t just walk away,” you admitted, almost laughing at how strange it sounded.

I remember the way my heart reacted before my mind did — a small, sudden thud, like a door opening somewhere inside me. So I stayed.

We ended up walking together without deciding to. Talking without planning to. It started with small things — how bad the traffic was, how unpredictable the weather had been, how we both pretended to understand life better than we actually did. Easy conversation. The kind that flows like you’re picking up from the middle of a story instead of the beginning.

Days later, you messaged.

Then again the next night.

Then calls that stretched past midnight.

Somewhere between sharing favorite songs, childhood memories, and quiet confessions we didn’t tell other people, the space between “you” and “me” began to shrink. I started noticing the way your voice softened when you said my name. You noticed when my mood shifted, even through a screen.

A burst of laughter from the café pulled me back. The couple by the window were sharing a dessert now, two spoons, one plate. I watched them for a second too long, my chest tightening with a soft ache that wasn’t entirely sadness… and wasn’t entirely longing either.

It was memory.

I wrapped my hands around my cup, letting its warmth sink into my skin, and wondered how something that started so suddenly could still feel so close — even now, sitting alone, watching someone else’s love story unfold where mine had once begun.