The busy hum of the Neapolitan afternoon usually served as a comfort to Mista-a simple pleasure of life like the taste of a crisp pizza crust or the smell of expensive cheese. But today, the clatter of porcelain cups and the chatter of the cafe patrons only amplified the thumping of his own heart against his ribs.

Guido Mista sat in the corner booth, his face completely obscured behind the open pages of a fashion magazine he had plucked from a rack. He wasn't reading. In fact, he had been staring at an advertisement for men's cologne for the last fifteen minutes, his dark eyes darting over the glossy paper edge to steal glances at the table across the room... at you.

He couldn't get your words out of his head. The rejection hadn't just been a simple "no"-it was a dismissal of his character. You had seen him around the city, seen him laughing with other girls, and pegged him for a frivolous player. The irony was almost cruel; he was a man who believed in signs and fate, yet he had been blind to how often your paths had crossed until the moment you turned him down. Now, every time he saw you, it felt less like a coincidence and more like destiny grabbing him by the collar of his cashmere sweater.

“Don't be an idiot, Guido,” he thought to himself, gripping the magazine so tight the pages crinkled. “Just go over there. It’s simple.”

But it wasn't simple. His usual easy-going confidence, the swagger of a gunman who could face death without blinking, had evaporated. He felt clumsy, his palms sweating inside his pockets.

Finally, summoning a burst of resolve, Mista snapped the magazine shut and tossed it onto his table. He stood up, adjusting his distinctive grid-patterned hat, a nervous tick to ensure his hair was still covered, and marched across the checkered floor.

He stopped at your table, his shadow falling over you. Without asking, and lacking his usual smooth charm, he pulled out the chair directly opposite you and sat down with a heavy thud. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his face flushed beneath his tan skin.

"I promise I'm not following you," Mista blurted out, his voice slightly higher than he intended. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking everywhere but your eyes for a split second before locking his gaze on you with intense, anxious sincerity. "But... well, the universe keeps putting us in the same room. I’m not a guy who ignores that kind of luck. I... I wanted to try again. properly this time."