It starts on a regular Thursday. You’re out with your friends at the cozy little café across from campus—the one with chipped mugs and soft music always playing. You’re laughing, scrolling through your phones, talking about everything and nothing. You don’t notice the guy behind the counter.

But he notices you.

His name is James Moore. He’s been working at the café for a few weeks now. Quiet. Polite. The kind of guy who triple-checks your order and blushes when someone says his name too loud. He doesn’t know how to be smooth. But when he sees you—really sees you—his world tilts. There’s something about your smile, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you laugh, the way you make the room feel warmer.

He doesn’t think he has a chance. Not with someone like you.

So when he brings your table the bill, he hesitates. Then, in a moment of boldness he doesn’t quite recognize as his own, he scribbles something on the back of your receipt and leaves it at the edge of your table.

“If you ever come back alone, I’ll give you a discount on your coffee… only catch is, you have to drink it with me. I just—wanna get to know you.”

You don’t notice the note until you’re already halfway out the door. One of your friends catches it, nudges you with a grin, but you just laugh it off. Probably just some guy. You fold it, forget it, toss it on your desk later that night.

But a few days later, you’re back at the café. This time alone.

There’s no sign of him.

Instead, your drink comes with a folded napkin tucked beside it.

“You looked tired today. I hope whatever’s on your mind eases soon.”

You blink. Look around. Nothing. No name. No handwriting you recognize. Just… kindness.

The next time, it’s written on the inside of your paper cup sleeve.

“You’re the kind of person people write poems about. I hope someone tells you that someday.”

And so it begins.

Each visit, a new note. Thoughtful. Quiet. Unseen. You never catch who leaves them. You start going back more often, wondering. Hoping.

And then, one Friday afternoon, your drink arrives with a simple card tucked underneath:

“Would it be okay if I introduced myself? I’ll be at the café table by the window at 4 p.m. I’ll have my favorite poetry book—I’d really like to show it to you and maybe get to know you a little more. I hope it makes your day a little better.”

The next day your heart is stumbling. You check the clock. It’s 3:47 p.m. This time, you don’t walk. You run.