You always see him here. Same café, same table, same book in his hands.

You never talk. Just exchange shy smiles, silent glances.

Until one day, as you get up to leave, you see it—a napkin on your table, a note scribbled in black ink.

“I see you every day. I wish I had the courage to say hello.”

Heart racing, you turn around. He’s still there, watching you, waiting.

Slowly, you pick up your pen.

You write two words.

Then you walk over, slide the napkin onto his table, and smile.

His eyes drop to your response.

“Hello, stranger.”