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Sienna had always believed that some moments in life carried a certain weight—a quiet significance that you might not recognize until later. Sitting across from Logan in the dimly lit café, with rain streaking the windows and the scent of coffee wrapping around them, she felt it. A shift, subtle yet undeniable.
She traced the rim of her mug with her finger, glancing at Logan as he took another sip of his coffee. He seemed relaxed, yet there was an intensity to him, like he was always a little lost in thought. There was something about the way he carried himself—like he had a thousand things he wanted to say but wasn't sure if he should.
"So, poetry?" she asked, picking up the thread of their conversation. "That's not something you hear every day."
Logan smirked. "What, guys can't write poetry?"
"No, no, that's not what I meant," she said quickly, laughing. "It's just… unexpected."
"Unexpected can be good."
Sienna tilted her head. "Do you have a favorite poet?"
Logan set his mug down, considering for a moment. "Probably Pablo Neruda. His words—there's something about them. They feel… raw, but still beautiful."
She smiled, her eyes lighting up. "I love Neruda."
"You do?"
She nodded, a small excitement bubbling up. "'I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where…'"
Without missing a beat, Logan continued, his voice softer, "'I love you simply, without problems or pride.'"
The warmth in his tone sent a shiver down her spine, and for a fleeting second, it felt as if the world had narrowed to just the two of them, sitting in a corner of a rain-drenched café, bound by words written decades ago.
Sienna exhaled slowly, the moment stretching between them.
"I didn't peg you for a poetry person either," Logan admitted, resting his chin on his hand.
She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I have layers."
He chuckled. "I'm starting to see that."
A comfortable silence settled between them before Logan leaned forward slightly, curiosity flickering in his expression. "Okay, your turn. Tell me something else."
Sienna hesitated, then said, "I have this… ritual."
Logan raised an eyebrow. "Ritual?"
"Whenever I finish a really good book, I don't start a new one right away. I let it sit with me for a day or two—like I'm still living in that world."
A slow smile spread across Logan's face. "That's not weird at all."
"Oh, good, because Olivia says it's borderline obsessive."
Logan chuckled. "Sounds like you're just someone who really loves stories."
She exhaled, relieved that he understood. "I do."
Another silence passed, but it wasn't uncomfortable. The café around them had begun to thin out as the evening stretched on. Outside, the rain had softened into a gentle drizzle, reflecting the glow of streetlights.
The thought crossed her mind that she didn't want this conversation to end—not yet. She was enjoying peeling back the layers of this unexpected stranger who didn't feel like a stranger at all.
"Do you ever write your own stories?" Logan asked, pulling her from her thoughts.
Sienna blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"You said you make up lives for people you see. Do you ever write them down?"
She shook her head. "No. I mean, I used to. But I haven't in a long time."
"Why not?"
She hesitated, not used to talking about this part of herself. "I guess… somewhere along the way, I convinced myself I wasn't good enough."
Logan frowned slightly. "That's a shame."
She looked down at her coffee. "Maybe."
"You should write," he said simply. "Not for anyone else. Just for yourself."
His words settled in her chest, warm and unfamiliar.
She opened her mouth to respond, but the sound of the rain tapping against the window distracted her. It had picked up again, heavier now, casting soft shadows against the dim lights of the café. The moment felt surreal, as if it belonged to a different life, one where she was bolder, less afraid of the "what-ifs."
Logan leaned back, studying her. "You're thinking about it, aren't you?"
She smirked. "About writing?"
He nodded.
"Maybe."
He grinned. "That's a start."
Before she could say anything else, Logan glanced at his watch. A flicker of disappointment passed through his features. "I should probably get going soon."
Sienna's heart dipped slightly—an odd reaction considering they'd only just met.
"Yeah, of course," she said, forcing a smile.
Logan hesitated, then pulled a napkin from the holder on the table and scribbled something down. He slid it across to her.
His number.
"If you ever want to talk books or poetry—or just need a reason to get out of the house," he said with a smirk, "call me."
Sienna looked at the napkin, then back at him. "Smooth."
He laughed, standing up and pulling on his jacket. "Maybe the rain really does bring out my best lines."
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
Logan hesitated for a second, then said, "I'm really glad I got caught in the rain tonight."
Sienna's fingers tightened around the napkin. "Me too."
With one last lingering glance, Logan turned and walked toward the door. The bell jingled as he stepped out into the night.
Sienna sat there for a long time after he left, the napkin still in her hands.
She traced her fingers over the ink, memorizing the numbers even though she could have just saved them in her phone. There was something about writing them down, about the tangibility of it, that made it feel… different.
The rain had slowed, but the air outside still smelled fresh, the pavement glistening under the glow of streetlights. She exhaled softly, leaning back in her chair.
Maybe Olivia had been onto something.
Maybe—just maybe—this was the start of a story worth telling.
And for the first time in a long while, she found herself wanting to write again.