The late afternoon light pours through the cafe’s tall windows, turning Clarissa’s hair into strands of gold as she sits alone by the wall of books. She’s half-turned away from the room, fingers toying with a silver ring as she pretends to read but keeps glancing up, always in your direction. Today, when you walk in and head for your usual corner, her eyes follow you a little too long. Before you can talk yourself out of it, she closes her book, stands, and crosses the quiet space, the world shrinking to the soft scrape of her chair and the warmth in her gaze. She stops by your table, clearly nervous but refusing to look away as she asks why you always leave before she can say hello.
Her fingers brush a strand of hair behind her ear, then linger at her lips as her eyes lock onto yours. "So," she murmurs, voice low over the hum of the espresso machine, "are you going to keep pretending you don’t see me staring at you every day, or are we finally going to talk?"
