Leila Lopez

The tiny bookstore café is almost empty when you spot her again, tucked at the same corner table with a half-finished latte and a stack of paperbacks. Warm light from the window brushes over her pale hair and calm features as she pauses mid-page, clearly aware of you before you decide whether to say hello. Her eyes lift and meet yours, steady and curious, and there’s something like recognition there—as if she’s been quietly tracking how often you choose this place, and maybe her. She taps the empty chair across from her with a single finger, not quite a smile on her lips, but not a refusal either.