Coincidences, maybe. Patterns, sure. But the idea that the universe had some grand design that led him here—to this café, to this book, to her—felt too much like a story someone else would write.
And yet.
Here he was.
Waiting.
He sat in the corner of Café Amour, the book resting on the table in front of him, untouched. He hadn't written anything yet. Not because he didn't know what to say, but because he wasn't sure if he should say it.
"Does it matter?"
Her last words lingered in his head like a half-finished song.
Did it matter?
Of course, it did.
He wasn't the kind of person who spilled his thoughts so easily, who let himself want things without restraint. But she had slipped through the cracks before he could stop her, turning words into something that felt like more than just ink on a page.
He tapped his pen against the cover.
Then, carefully, deliberately, he opened the book and wrote:
"It does to me."
That was all.
That was enough.
He slid the book back into its place on the shelf.
And then—because sitting there any longer made him feel like he was waiting for something that might never come—he left.
Lana didn't go to the café that night.
She told herself she was too busy. That she had other things to do, places to be.
That she wasn't avoiding it.
But Noa saw right through her.
"You're a coward," Noa said, leaning against Lana's kitchen counter, arms crossed.
Lana groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "I'm not a coward."
"Then why aren't you there right now?"
"Because—" Lana hesitated. "Because this is stupid."
Noa raised an eyebrow. "Is it?"
Lana crossed her arms. "Yes."
Noa just stared at her, waiting.
Lana sighed. "Fine. Maybe it's not stupid. But it's—complicated."
"Only if you make it that way."
Lana didn't answer.
Because the truth was, she wanted to go.
She wanted to see if he had replied.
She wanted to know if this was still just words on a page, or if it had become something more.
And that terrified her.
She exhaled, shaking her head. "You're annoying."
Noa grinned. "I know. Now go."
Lana hesitated—just for a second—then grabbed her coat and walked out the door.
The café was quieter than usual when Lana arrived.
The usual hum of conversation still filled the air, but it felt distant, muted.
She moved through the space with practiced ease, heart pounding, hands steady only because she willed them to be.
The book was still there.
Waiting.
She took a breath and pulled it from the shelf, fingers trembling just slightly as she flipped to their page.
And then—
"It does to me."
Her breath caught.
She ran her fingers over the ink, as if she could feel the weight of those words, the truth behind them.
She had asked if it mattered.
And now, she had her answer.
Something in her chest tightened.
And she knew—without question—that this wasn't just a game anymore.
She lifted her pen.
Hesitated.
Then wrote:
"Then tell me your name."
It was time.