The following Sunday, Amelia found herself at the café again, her usual seat by the window empty and waiting. The rain had been falling steadily since dawn, a familiar backdrop to her routine. She set her notebook on the table, but instead of opening it, she glanced around, her gaze subtly searching for him.
Maybe he wouldn't come back. Maybe that brief moment they'd shared last week was just that—a fleeting interaction destined to fade into memory.
She took a slow sip of her coffee, its warmth comforting as the minutes ticked by. The door chimed, and her heart jumped before she could stop it. There he was, shaking off the rain again, dark hair a little damp, jacket slightly crinkled. She watched as his eyes scanned the room, and for a second, she wondered if he would remember her at all.
But then his gaze locked onto hers, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He didn't hesitate this time. He walked straight over.
"Mind if I join you again?" he asked, already pulling out the chair.
Amelia smiled, trying to hide the flutter in her chest. "Go ahead."
He sat down, setting his cup in front of him, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. It felt different this time, like the space between them had shrunk, like they weren't just strangers sharing a table anymore.
"I was hoping you'd be here," he admitted, breaking the silence. There was something a little sheepish in his smile, something that made him seem less confident than last week.
"You were?" Amelia tried to sound casual, but her heart wasn't exactly cooperating.
He nodded, glancing at her notebook again. "I've been thinking about what you said. About your writing. Have you written anything since last time?"
Amelia hesitated, her fingers brushing the cover of the notebook. She had written—more than she had in weeks—but the idea of sharing it with him felt a little too vulnerable, too intimate. "A little," she said vaguely.
"I'd love to read something," he said softly, leaning back in his chair. "If you don't mind, of course."
Her heart thudded in her chest. She wasn't sure why his words made her so nervous. It wasn't like she was writing some masterpiece, but there was something about the way he said it—genuine, curious—that made her want to say yes.
"I... maybe," she said, her voice faltering. She tried to cover it with a small laugh. "I'm not sure it's worth reading."
He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "I'm sure it is."
For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the noise of the café fading into the background. She could feel herself softening, her guard slipping. There was something about him, something easy and open, like he wasn't in a rush for answers, like he had all the time in the world to sit here with her.
"Okay," she said quietly, surprising herself. She opened her notebook, flipping past the messy thoughts and half-scribbled sentences until she found a page that felt... safe enough to share. She pushed it across the table, her fingers barely brushing the edge of the paper.
He picked it up carefully, his eyes scanning the words. The silence stretched between them as he read, and she could hardly breathe, her pulse quickening with every second.
Finally, he looked up, his expression soft. "This is beautiful."
Amelia blinked, unsure how to respond. She'd never really shared her writing with anyone, never thought it was good enough to warrant praise. "You think so?" she asked, her voice quieter than she intended.
"I do." He handed the notebook back to her, his fingers brushing hers for a brief moment. "You have a way of capturing things. Little moments, like that. It's... real."
Her cheeks warmed, and she ducked her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Thanks," she murmured, unable to meet his gaze.
"So," he said after a moment, leaning back in his chair with a playful smile, "now that I've read something of yours, I suppose it's only fair I show you something of mine."
Amelia raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "You mean your photography?"
He nodded, pulling out his phone. "I've been working on a project. Just something personal. I'd love to hear your thoughts."
He scrolled through his gallery and handed her the phone. The image on the screen was simple—an old, weathered door in a forgotten alleyway, the paint chipped and faded, the light casting a soft shadow on the ground. But there was something about it that spoke to her, something quiet and nostalgic.
"It's beautiful," she whispered, almost to herself.
He smiled, his eyes brightening. "That's exactly how I feel when I look at it."
They spent the next hour talking—about his photography, about her writing, about everything and nothing at all. The rain outside continued to fall, but inside the café, it was warm and cozy, and the space between them felt less and less like space at all.
As the afternoon light began to fade, he glanced at the time and sighed. "I should probably head out," he said, reluctantly standing. "But I'd like to do this again. Maybe next Sunday?"
Amelia's heart fluttered again. "Yeah," she said, smiling up at him. "Next Sunday."
As he walked out into the rain, she watched him go, a small smile lingering on her lips. She didn't know what this was yet, but whatever it was, it felt like the beginning of something. Something good.