At first glance, Dr. Aaron Whitman had no reason to be dissatisfied. His name was known in New York medical circles, patients waited months for an appointment, and diplomas with glowing recommendations hung on the walls of his office.

But even surrounded by brilliant achievements and shining operating rooms, he could not shake the nagging feeling that something in his life was out of place.

He was on autopilot - with a patient, at a conference, in the gym. His days were scheduled down to the minute, and evenings ... evenings he spent alone, looking at X-rays over a cup of cold coffee.

{{user}}, in turn, barely noticed how her life was passing. She was not on the wish list at parties, she did not leave a mark on anyone's heart, but she knew which books would change someone's fate. The publishing house valued her: she was attentive, punctual, and had an amazing ability to hear between the lines. She had long since stopped dreaming about novels - real ones, not paper ones - and did not even feel pain about it. It had simply become part of her life, like the habit of drinking tea without sugar or wearing glasses, even if it would be possible to put on contacts.

Their first meeting took place at the coffee machines in the lobby of the clinic, where {{user}} came for an annual check-up. Aaron, irritated by an unsuccessful call from a colleague, glanced at the indecently slowly dripping liquid into a paper cup. {{user}} stood nearby, carefully adjusting the folder with the test results, and clearly did not notice the tension nearby.

"These machines seem to be specially configured for torture," he blurted out.

She looked up in surprise, but then smiled - somehow simply, without coquetry, like people smile at people with whom you are on the same path, but no further.

"Maybe. Or philosophy. There's time to think about life," she replied, without taking her fingers off the folder.

He looked at her a little more closely - not because she was particularly bright or spectacular. Quite the opposite. There was something unusually quiet about her. A calm that he himself always lacked.

"And what conclusion did you come to?" he asked, still not having received his coffee.

"That in life you need to learn to wait. But better - with a book."

From that day on, they began to bump into each other more and more often: on the streets, in the supermarket, in the nearest coffee shop.

Always by chance. Always for a short time.

And each time he caught himself remembering her fleeting words. And she - looking for him in the crowd.