Eli
Dark weather always felt like home to Eli. There was something inexplicably comforting about the low-hanging clouds, the drizzle tapping gently against his windowpane, and the gray tones that washed over the city. While others grumbled about the gloom, he embraced it. On days like these, everything felt quieter, slower—as if the world exhaled. And in that stillness, Eli found peace.
He wasn't the kind of man who drew second glances on the street. Average height, ordinary face, messy dark hair he never quite tamed. Yet beneath that unassuming exterior was a mind full of colors, a soul soaked in gentle reflections. His world was quiet, but it wasn't empty.
He lived alone in a small studio apartment above an old bookshop he also worked at. The building creaked with age, but Eli loved it. His apartment had a slanted ceiling, a fogged window that looked out onto the alley, and walls lined with shelves of books he'd collected over the years—second-hand titles, poetry anthologies, notebooks filled with his own scribbles. He played records, not playlists. Drank his coffee black, not cold brew. He lived softly, with intent.
He noticed things—small things most people missed. The subtle shift in light when a cloud passed, the delicate bruise of emotion in someone's voice, the way certain people carried invisible weights. But he didn't notice everything.
Only her.
Though they hadn't met yet, Eli believed he would know her the moment their paths crossed. He wouldn't need a sign or a revelation—just a look. He'd melt into it like rain soaking into earth.
He had never been in love. Never even dated. Not because he feared it, but because he waited for something real. Something rare. In the late hours of the night, he sometimes imagined what it might feel like to have someone's fingers tangled in his, someone who saw the quiet places in him and stayed.
He imagined her eyes. He didn't know their color, but he knew they would hold galaxies. And when he looked into them, he would finally feel seen.
Alina
Alina lived in a glass tower, high above the noise of the city. From her window, the skyline glittered like something out of a dream. People who knew her said she was the kind of woman who had everything. And maybe she did—on paper.
She was beautiful in a way that seemed almost too perfect. Clear skin, sculpted features, lips that curled just slightly at the edges, like she was always hiding a thought she would never share. But it was her eyes that made people forget their words—eyes like midnight stars, deep and unblinking, like they were always watching but rarely revealing.
She worked as an executive assistant at a luxury fashion firm—managing chaos, dressing like she stepped out of a campaign, never late, never frazzled. Her routine was sacred: morning runs in sleek sneakers, iced black coffee, perfectly curated playlists, a neatly arranged desk. To most, she was intimidating—elegant, composed, emotionally unreachable.
But the truth? Alina had never let anyone close.
She had never dated. Not once. She had built her world out of precision and walls. Not because she didn't crave love, but because she feared what would happen if someone got too close and saw the mess behind the perfection. She'd had offers—plenty. But no one had ever made her pause. No one had ever looked at her like she wasn't a masterpiece to be admired, but a person to be understood.
Some nights, she'd sit in silence by the window, tracing constellations through the glass, wondering if somewhere in the city, someone else felt the same ache.
She didn't want a whirlwind romance or poetic gestures. She wanted something real. Someone who noticed her when her voice trembled, when she hesitated, when she wasn't perfect.
She didn't want to be desired.
She wanted to be known.
He leaned against the cold window of the bookshop after hours, mug warming his palms, watching the city blur beneath the drizzle. A jazz vinyl spun behind him—Miles Davis, slow and smoky. His journal lay open on the counter, ink still drying on a fresh page.
There's a storm in me I've never learned to name, And somewhere, someone might be listening.
Her heels dropped with a thud beside her bed. The day had drained her. She unpinned her hair and let it fall around her shoulders, pulled on a hoodie three sizes too big, and curled up on her couch. She sipped lukewarm chamomile tea, phone silenced, eyes lost in the storm outside.
A thousand people knew her name.
None of them knew her.