{{user}} noticed him again. Third time this week. Always around closing, always standing by the window pretending to browse. He never bought anything. Never said a word.

Tonight, {{user}} decided to break the silence. "You following me or just really indecisive?" she asked, half-joking.

The man stepped forward, his voice quiet. "I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just... didn’t know how to talk to you."

"You’ve been staring at me for days," she said, folding her arms. "That’s not exactly charming."

"I know," he said. "But the first time I saw you, you were reading Neruda. You looked... like you were somewhere else. Sad, but still kind of glowing. I don’t know. It stuck with me."

She raised a brow. "So you started stalking me because I read poetry?"

He gave a crooked smile. "I guess that’s one way to put it. I just hoped one day you’d talk to me."

She studied him for a moment. He looked tired. Sincere. Maybe lonely. She paused. Then, quietly: "Maybe I’ll read something again. But only if you stop watching like I’m glass about to crack."

He nodded. "Deal."