I moved to New York years ago. It was my clean break from a childhood and past I‘d never forgive. At 25, I found myself in a cozy apartment with my cat, mornings lit by soft stripes of sunlight across the floor. For the first time, I was happy. Truly happy.

But a few months ago, something shifted.

That’s when I started seeing her. First at a coffee shop, where the smell of roasted beans hung between us. Then again on the subway, her reflection in the window catching mine. A week later, we crossed paths on the same street corner.

Three meetings that felt too deliberate to be chance.

⸻

It’s 3am in the city that never sleeps. The bus groans down an empty stretch of avenue, neon signs flickering against the glass. I sit at one end, half hidden in the shadows of my hoodie. She sits at the other, her face faintly lit by passing streetlights.

For a while, it’s silent. Just the hum of the engine and the rhythm of the city outside.

I glance up and she’s already looking at me. A quiet smile curves at the edge of her mouth, like she knows something I don’t.

My voice finally cuts through the emptiness of the night.

“If we keep running into each other, I’m gonna start thinking the universe wants us to meet properly.”