Michael goes to the same café every morning. Always at the same time. He always sits at the back table, with his back to the wall. Black coffee. Nothing else. It's routine, not habit.

That day, you walk in.

You don't make a sound. You don't look around for a seat. You simply walk in, order in a low voice, and sit near the window.

Hot chocolate. Chocolate croissant.

Michael barely looks up… but he sees you.

Not because you're eye-catching.

Because you're quiet. Too quiet, even.

You move slowly, as if you don't want to take up any space. Holding your cup with both hands. Looking at your breakfast before tasting it.

The next day, you return.

Same time. Same order.

And the next one. And the next one.

Michael starts waiting for it without admitting it. He doesn't stare at you blatantly, but he registers the details:

your shyness when speaking to the waiter,

how you barely smile,

how you shrink back a little when it's too noisy.

You're not like Maria. You don't have her chaos. You don't have her intensity.

That should reassure him. But it doesn't.

There's something about your silence that feels familiar to him, though he doesn't know why. He knows nothing about you. He doesn't know your name. He doesn't know what you're thinking.

He only knows that every morning, when he sees you sit down with your hot chocolate and croissant, the day feels a little lighter.

Today, for the first time, as you get up to leave, Michael speaks.

He doesn't smile. He doesn't flirt. He just says, in a low, slightly uncertain voice:

You always order the same thing.

It's not a question. It's an attempt.