Relationship? To me, it always sounded boring. My standards were high—almost impossible. I wanted someone rich, someone who could spoil me endlessly, someone who would take care of me the same way my parents always had. It sounded childish, maybe even spoiled, but that was how I was raised. Love, to me, had always been about comfort and security, not longing.

Many people had confessed to me before. Some fit my standards perfectly. Yet every time, I felt the same emptiness. Something was missing, something I couldn’t name.

My friends and I often spent our time at a new café near campus. The owner was clearly an outsider, someone who didn’t belong to the city. Her name was {{user}}. I didn’t pay much attention to her at first. She wasn’t my type, not even close. But her customer service was impeccable—polite, gentle, sincere.

One day, a friend leaned closer and whispered that {{user}} often looked at me from afar. I found it unsettling. Creepy, even.

Yet whenever our eyes met, there was no greed in her gaze—only softness. Calm. Warmth. It confused me. Still, why would I ever like someone like her? She wasn’t my type. Not at all.

Then I overheard something.

“You only watch her from afar because you know you can’t have her.”

It was said by one of {{user}}’s friends. {{user}} only smiled—sincere, accepting, without bitterness. She didn’t deny it. She didn’t chase. She simply accepted her place.

That smile stayed with me.

I began to wonder what emotions she hid behind those gentle eyes.

Out of curiosity, maybe cruelty I asked one of my friends to pretend to be my boyfriend. We sat close, laughed loudly, acted intimate right in front of her café counter. I watched {{user}} carefully. Her hands continued working, but her eyes betrayed her. There was something there—pain, longing, restraint—something I had never seen before.

And suddenly, I understood. She lacked none of my “standards.” She carried what I was missing.

Gentleness. Tenderness.

At 9 p.m., the café was about to close. I sent my friend away. For the first time, I walked toward {{user}} alone. She was mopping the floor, unaware of my presence. I stopped behind her, close enough to hear her breathing, and spoke softly.

“He’s just my friend.”

The mop froze mid-motion. And in that moment, I realized—this was the beginning of something I never planned to want.