Xoese sat in the corner of the bustling café, their notebook open to a blank page, the pen in their hand heavy and unmoving. Outside the window, the city thrummed with life—cars honking, people laughing, the sun painting long shadows across the streets. But none of it stirred anything within them. For months now, Xoese, once a writer whose words had flowed like an endless river, had been adrift in a sea of creative drought.

Their coffee had long gone cold when they noticed her. It wasn’t the sound of her voice or the way she walked into the café that caught Xoese’s attention—it was her eyes. The girl with the sharp presence and quiet confidence sat just a few tables away, and her gaze seemed to cut through the air with a magnetic force.

Her eyes didn’t just look; they spoke. They held storms of untold stories, galaxies of emotion that were raw, vulnerable, and ancient. Xoese found themselves staring, spellbound by the weight they carried—triumphs, heartbreak, secrets that would never be spoken aloud.

In those eyes, Xoese saw fragments of a narrative waiting to be unearthed. The cadence of her blinking was a rhythm, the tilt of her head an opening line. They reached for their pen, and it moved for the first time in weeks.

Her eyes told a tale of resilience, of someone who had walked through fire and emerged not unscathed but stronger, scarred in a way that added depth to her beauty. Xoese could imagine her standing in a rainstorm, the drops tracing paths down her face as she stared at something no one else could see. The layers of her story unfolded in Xoese's mind—a story that demanded to be told.

The notebook began to fill with hurried scrawls, the café around them blurring into a backdrop of muffled noise. For the first time in forever, Xoese’s mind was alive with possibilities. Each glance at her eyes revealed something new—a tragedy that shaped her, a triumph she had yet to celebrate, the vulnerability she hid behind a wall of strength.

When she rose to leave, Xoese’s hand hesitated. They