The rain hadn't let up by morning. Amara sat curled on her couch, watching rivulets of water streak down her window. The napkin lay on the coffee table in front of her, edges crinkled and soft from last night's storm. His handwriting steady and slightly slanted stared back at her.
Eli.
She traced the letters with her fingertip, fighting the urge to smile.
"No," she whispered to herself, leaning back. "Don't start. You don't know him."
But his voice echoed in her mind anyway calm, teasing, almost poetic.
"Sometimes, the rain finds us when we're not ready. Doesn't mean we have to walk through it alone."
Amara groaned and pressed a pillow over her face. She hated how easily those words slipped through her defenses. After Kola, she'd promised herself: No more strangers. No more trusting too quickly. No more mistakes.
Her phone buzzed on the table. It wasn't Eli of course it wasn't; he didn't have her number. It was her best friend, Teni.
Teni: Babe, you're still alive? You disappeared after the breakup. At least say hi.
Amara sighed, typing back lazily.
Amara: I'm fine. Just… needed space.
Almost instantly, the reply came.
Teni: Fine? With no umbrella in that storm yesterday? I bet you caught a cold.
Amara blinked, a laugh slipping from her lips. If only Teni knew.
She hesitated, thumb hovering above the keyboard, tempted to tell her friend about Eli. But the words stuck. It felt too soon, too unreal like if she spoke it aloud, the fragile magic of the moment would shatter.
Instead, she typed: I'm good, promise.
Later that afternoon, the clouds thinned to a drizzle. Amara forced herself outside to buy groceries. As she stepped out of the store, juggling a bag of vegetables and bread, the rain picked up again. She cursed under her breath.
"Of course. Figures."
A shadow stretched over her, and she looked up.
"Guess we keep meeting like this," a familiar voice said.
Her breath caught. Eli stood there, holding the same black umbrella from the night before. Drops clung to his hair, sliding down his forehead. His smile was small but genuine.
"Eli…" The name slipped out before she could stop it.
He tilted his head. "You remembered."
Heat rose to her cheeks. "It was just last night."
"True. But some people forget fast." His gaze lingered on her, steady and unreadable.
She shifted uncomfortably, adjusting the grocery bag in her arms. "Are you… following me?"
That earned a soft chuckle. "Not quite. I live two streets over. This store's on my way home."
Amara blinked, then laughed despite herself. "Oh. Okay. You don't look like a stalker, so I'll believe you."
"Glad I passed the test." He angled the umbrella toward her. "Want some cover?"
She hesitated again. Last night was chance. Twice feels like… fate.
But her groceries were getting heavier, and her clothes were already damp. "Fine," she muttered, stepping under.
They walked side by side, their shoulders brushing again. This time, it didn't feel so strange.
"So, Amara," Eli began casually, "what do you do when you're not wandering through storms?"
"I work at a publishing firm," she said. "Mostly editing manuscripts no one will ever read."
He raised an eyebrow. "That sounds… depressing."
"It is," she admitted with a wry smile. "But sometimes you find a story worth believing in. That keeps me going."
"Stories worth believing in," he repeated thoughtfully. "I like that."
"And you?" she asked quickly, desperate to shift the attention. "What do you do?"
"I'm a photographer," he said simply.
Her brows lifted. "Really?"
He nodded. "Mostly freelance. Weddings, portraits… sometimes street photography. I like catching the moments people don't notice."
"That explains the way you talk," she said before thinking.
He frowned lightly. "What way?"
"Like you're… framing everything. Like you see beauty where most people don't."
His eyes softened. "Maybe I just see what others are too busy to stop for."
Amara swallowed hard, looking away. Her chest ached in that same confusing way it had last night.
They reached her building all too quickly. Amara lingered on the steps, unsure what to say.
"Thanks again," she murmured.
Eli studied her, then asked, "Do you like coffee?"
The question caught her off guard. "Uh… sometimes."
"There's a little café down the street," he said. "Best cappuccino in the neighborhood. Maybe I could buy you one. Tomorrow?"
Amara froze. Her heart screamed yes, but her mind screamed danger. She wasn't ready. Not yet.
"I… don't know," she said softly.
Eli didn't push. He simply nodded, offering her that calm smile again. "Think about it. If you say no, I won't be offended."
She tightened her grip on the grocery bag. "I'll… think about it."
"Goodnight, Amara," he said, stepping back into the drizzle.
She watched him go until the rain swallowed his figure once again. Then she looked down at the napkin she still carried in her jacket pocket. Her fingers traced the ink.
Coffee isn't a promise, she told herself. It's just coffee.
So why did it feel like so much more?
