Every morning at 7:03, Ava sat at the corner table of Café Miro, sketching strangers and sipping lavender tea. Every morning at 7:07, Leo walked in, ordered a black coffee, and glanced her way—but never spoke.
It became their silent routine. Smiles were exchanged like folded notes never opened. One rainy Tuesday, Ava wasn’t there. The table sat empty, and Leo stood frozen in the doorway, coffee order forgotten.
The next day, she returned with a bandaged wrist and a sheepish smile. Leo walked straight to her table and said, “You missed our non-conversation yesterday.”
She laughed. “I was starting to think you only existed in pencil.”
They sat together, and words finally replaced glances. By spring, they’d made a habit of sharing one sketchbook and one cup of lavender tea with two straws.
Sometimes love doesn’t arrive with fireworks—it slips quietly into your favorite café and sits across from you, just waiting to be noticed.
