The streets of New York are eerily quiet at night, with the occasional breeze bringing a damp chill. Claire stands by the window, arms wrapped around herself, her gaze lingering on the distant twinkling lights of the city. Since the arrival of the mysterious customer, her days seem to have shifted, subtly but unmistakably.
Lucas—she remembered his name, as well as the thoughtful expression he wore every time he left. There was always a hidden depth in his eyes, as if they concealed a thousand secrets behind a door she could never unlock.
"Who is he, really?" Claire wonders, but the answer feels as distant and unattainable as ever.
The following evening, just like the ones before, Claire arrives at the café early. She won't admit it, but she finds herself subconsciously hoping for Lucas's return, her eyes darting to the door repeatedly, waiting.
Finally, that familiar figure appears again, stepping into the café with the night breeze. He's dressed in his usual dark coat, with that same cold, detached air about him.
"Good evening," he says, his voice low and magnetic.
"Good evening, Lucas," Claire replies hesitantly, testing his name on her tongue. She notices a flicker of surprise in his eyes, though it quickly fades into calm.
"It seems my name has been remembered," Lucas smiles slightly, his usual aloofness softening just a touch.
Claire's heart skips a beat. This is the first time she has seen Lucas smile, and though it's brief, it feels like a shard of light piercing through the shadows surrounding him.
"Of course, it's easy to remember the names of regulars," she covers her sudden fluster, quickly preparing his coffee and handing it over.
Lucas takes the coffee, and once again, he heads for the corner. This time, however, he doesn't sit down immediately. Instead, he stands by the window, his gaze deep and distant, staring out at the dark street. Claire watches him, noticing how solitary he looks in the dim light, as if he doesn't quite belong in this world.
Her curiosity piqued once more, Claire feels an irresistible pull and steps toward him.
"You always come here alone," Claire says softly, her tone tentative.
Lucas turns his head to look at her, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I like quiet places, and this one suits me."
"You always show up at night... don't you prefer the daytime?" She gathers her courage and asks.
Lucas's gaze falters for a moment, his thoughts seemingly drifting as his finger absentmindedly traces the rim of his coffee cup. He seems to be deciding how best to answer.
"Daytime doesn't suit me," he replies simply, his tone carrying an icy indifference.
Claire doesn't give up. She senses that there's more to his words, a deeper reason hidden behind them. "Doesn't suit you because of work... or is it... for some other reason?"
Lucas looks down at his coffee, falling into silence for a beat before slowly responding. "Everyone has their own way of living. I prefer the calm of the night. It makes me feel at ease."
Claire picks up on the guardedness in his words, and she realizes she may have pried too far. She nods, forcing a smile. "Sorry, I didn't mean to ask too much."
"It's fine." Lucas lifts his gaze to hers, and for a moment, his eyes soften. "There are just some questions whose answers aren't meant for everyone."
Claire freezes. His words, though gentle, carry a sense of finality, as if drawing an invisible line between them. The message is clear: there are boundaries that should not be crossed.
She doesn't push further, returning to her place behind the counter. Her eyes linger on his solitary figure by the window. A complex swirl of emotions rises within her—curiosity, yes, but also an unexpected sense of sympathy.
As the night deepens, Lucas leaves the café. His figure dissolves into the dim light of the street lamps, fading like a shadow in the night, too elusive to grasp.
Late that night, Claire returns to her apartment, opening the window to let the cool night air rush in. She reflects on Lucas's gaze, that mix of stories untold and a distance so palpable it kept everyone at bay.
"Why am I so curious about him?" she murmurs to herself.
She reaches for her notebook, instinctively recording the events of the day. After a moment's hesitation, she writes down Lucas's name and the peculiarities surrounding him.
"He doesn't like the sun, always comes at night, prefers to stay in corners... why?"
She closes the notebook and turns off the light, lying in bed. But sleep eludes her. The image of Lucas lingers in her mind—the loneliness in his demeanor, the quiet pull of his presence. There's something about him, something she can't ignore, something that draws her in despite the walls he's built around himself.