Rain tapped at the windows like a soft, persistent thought that wouldn't go away.
The kind of weather that made time feel slower. Softer. A little bruised around the edges.
Akash wiped down the counter again, though there was nothing left to clean. The café had settled into a lull — that rare mid-afternoon quiet where the hum of conversation had faded into background static, and the espresso machine took a breath with him.
She had come earlier. Zoey.
She had come and said what she didn't need to say.
And something in him — something that had been bracing for disappointment — had let go just a little.
Not everything. Just enough.
Enough to stop looking for reasons not to believe her.
She said Elian wasn't her boyfriend.
And for some reason, he believed her.
Maybe it was the way she'd stood there, coat in her arms, voice steady and eyes slightly uncertain. Like she'd practiced those words, not to convince him, but to make sure she didn't say too much too soon.
He liked that about her.
The restraint. The quiet honesty.
The fact that she didn't try to fill silences with fluff.
She let them hang.
Let them breathe.
⸻
He thought about her now as he restocked the sugar packets.
Her book still sat on his shelf at home — the one she recommended, not hers, though he'd picked up a title by Nymphaea after hearing her mention it too often not to be curious.
It sat unopened. Not because he wasn't interested.
But because he wasn't sure he was ready to meet the part of her she didn't talk about yet.
Some stories were too personal to start without permission.
⸻
A couple came in, laughing under a shared umbrella. He took their orders with the practiced ease of someone who'd learned to wear hospitality like a second skin.
Then, for a while, it was quiet again.
He leaned on the counter, sipping the drink he hadn't realized he'd made for himself.
And thought about how strange it was — that someone could enter your life like that. Not with drama or declarations. Just… slowly. Repeatedly. Like tidewater wearing down the edge of your certainty.
He wondered what she saw when she looked at him.
If she knew how much space she took up in his mind now.
He wasn't sure he liked that thought.
But he didn't hate it either.
⸻
Later, around four, he caught sight of her again.
Not inside.
Across the street, near the bookstore.
She didn't see him.
But he saw her.
Her hair was slightly damp from the rain, and she carried a paper bag under one arm — something light, probably a single book. Maybe two.
She looked content.
Peaceful in a way he hadn't expected.
And it made something ache inside him.
Not in a sad way. More like the feeling you get when you know you're watching a moment you'll think about later, when it's long gone.
He turned away before she could look up.
But he smiled.
Just a little.
⸻
That night, he got home and didn't turn on the light right away.
The apartment smelled like coffee grounds and laundry detergent. It was quiet in the way small spaces were — not silent, just full of soft echoes.
He toed off his shoes, dropped his keys in the dish, and walked straight to the shelf.
The book was still there. Nymphaea's.
He picked it up. Turned it over. Read the back again.
Then opened it.
Just the first page.
Just to see.
⸻
"We don't meet people by accident. Sometimes, they arrive before we're ready, and sometimes, we're ready long before they show up. Either way, we recognize them by the quiet they bring."
He didn't read the second page.
Just stared at the first line until it stopped being words and started being something else entirely.
A weight. A breath.
He closed the book.
Held it.
Didn't put it back.
Instead, he placed it on his bedside table.
A promise, maybe.
Or a question.
Or both.
⸻
The rain continued through the night.
He lay in bed and listened.
Let it fill the room like a kind of music.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just persistent.
Like her voice.
Like her.