The campus café was quieter than usual. Rain tapped against the tall glass windows like it was knocking softly, asking to come in. Veniamin sat near the back, where the table gave him just enough space to turn his wheelchair without awkwardness. His fingers played idly with the lid of his tea, nerves twitching with every beat of his heart.

She was there.

A few tables away, tucked into a soft blue sweater, nose buried in a book. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, strands falling around her face like the pages were whispering secrets only she could understand.

He didn’t know her name—not yet. But he knew she always ordered vanilla chai. He knew she hummed while reading, quietly, like she didn’t even realize she did it. He knew she once helped a crying freshman find their classroom, and she’d carried their books without asking. He’d seen her kindness spill in quiet gestures, like a cup too full to contain its sweetness.

And he—

He had dreamed of talking to her.

But his mind played tricks: She’ll think I’m just another sad story. She’ll smile because she pities you.
That voice had haunted him since he was six, wrapped in hospital blankets, asking where his parents were.

Still… she looked up.

Just for a second.

Their eyes met.

And in that instant, he forgot every cruel thing ever whispered behind his back. He forgot the sharp jokes, the questions disguised as sympathy, the isolation that followed him like a shadow on wheels.

Because her smile wasn’t pity.

It was… warm.

Real.

He blinked, unsure. And then—without letting himself overthink—he tapped the table beside him. Just once. Then lifted his tea in a little toast, silent but brave.

She tilted her head. Then smiled again—and raised her cup back.

Veniamin’s heart stumbled inside his chest.

Maybe tomorrow he’d ask her name.

But for now, this was enough. A shared gesture. A crack of light through years of quiet.