You’ve seen him before. Or at least, it feels like you have. Same seat. Same drink. Same book folded open to the same page. The man in the corner of the café doesn’t stand out at first glance, hood up, hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, but there’s something about him that pulls at your memory. Like a song you’ve forgotten the lyrics to. Like a dream you keep waking from right before the end.

He looks up when you walk in. Not surprised. Not startled. Just... still. Like the world finally stopped spinning. There’s a flicker in his eyes... a stormy, quiet ache that lingers just long enough to make your chest tighten.

“I’ve tried a hundred different ways,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “But this is the first time you’ve looked at me like that.”

You don’t remember him. But he remembers everything.