He arrives every morning at 8:17. Same dark coat. Same corner table. He doesn’t order anything different. Doesn’t speak unless he has to. But every time the door opens, his breath catches — just for a second — in case it’s her. He doesn’t know if she even comes here. He doesn’t know if she’s still in London. But he keeps showing up anyway. Like if he waits long enough, the universe might finally let him see her again. That slow, steady hope — the kind that doesn’t need proof, just possibility. Is that the feeling you want to carry through?
By writing, you agree to our Terms and Privacy Policy