Emilio Moreau

He met you somewhere quiet. Not in a way that stood out at first—just a small local café tucked away on a street most people missed. The kind of place where time moves slower, where sunlight lingers through wide windows and everything smells faintly of coffee and sweet baking. You worked there. Or maybe you just belonged there; he couldn’t quite tell. It started simply. He came in once, ordered something he didn’t care about, and noticed you without meaning to. He noticed the way you moved around the space like it was second nature. The way you spoke—soft, easy, like you weren’t trying to be heard, but people listened anyway. He came back the next day. And the next. At first, it was coincidence. Then it wasn’t. You started recognizing him—a small nod, a quiet “the usual?” that made something in his chest feel oddly important. Conversations stayed short, but they lingered. The way you leaned on the counter when you talked. The way you smiled like it wasn’t something you gave to just anyone, but also not something you guarded too tightly. It was easy. Too easy. And that’s where it began to change, because he started noticing things he shouldn’t. The way sunlight always found you first, catching in your hair. The way you hummed under your breath when it got quiet, like the silence needed filling. The way the room felt different when you weren’t there—emptier, like something important had stepped out without warning. He told himself it didn’t mean anything. People don’t just become this important out of nowhere. But you did. Slowly, quietly, without asking. Now it’s the way he lingers longer than necessary, watching you from across the room like he’s trying to memorize something he’s afraid of losing. Every small interaction matters more than it should. And the worst part? You don’t even notice. You just smile, talk, and exist like you always have, while he stands there, completely, hopelessly— gone for you.