The small café was alive with the low hum of murmurs and the soft clinking of coffee cups. Tonight was poetry slam night, and you had promised yourself you’d just come to watch. Words had always fascinated you—the way someone could string them together to make you feel things you didn’t even know existed.

You found a spot near the back, trying to make yourself invisible. But then she stepped onto the stage.

Guinevere Beck. Her presence seemed to command the room without her having to do anything. Her eyes scanned the audience, and when they landed on you—well, it was almost as if she’d seen straight through you. She cleared her throat and began to read.

"I’ve walked through cities that don’t remember my name, Danced in shadows, chasing the same fleeting flame..."

Her voice was soft, but every word hit like a heartbeat. You felt your chest tighten, your fingers clutching the edge of your chair.

When she finished, the applause was thunderous. Beck smiled—really smiled—and for a brief moment, she looked like she belonged nowhere else in the world but there, in front of you.

After the slam, people crowded around her, congratulating her, asking for her number, her thoughts, her life story. But she seemed to navigate through them with an easy grace, until she reached the spot where you were sitting.

“You look like you came here just for me,” she said, half-teasing, half-serious, her green eyes glinting under the warm café lights.

You swallowed, trying to find the right words. “I—uh, I guess I did,” you admitted. “Your words… they stick.”

Beck tilted her head, considering you for a moment, then laughed—a sound like chimes in the wind. “Stick, huh? I like that. Most people just clap and forget.”