"Some people come into your life like lightning. Others… like morning light through closed curtains. You don't notice them until they're everywhere."
Nairobi, Kenya
April 3rd, 7:48 a.m.
I wasn't supposed to be at the café that morning.
I should have been sitting in the cramped living room of my temporary apartment, trying not to spiral after yet another rejection email. But instead, I was here,corner table, chipped mug of lukewarm cappuccino in front of me, the taste stale enough to match my mood. The pen in my hand tapped the ceramic, rhythmic, anxious. A low hum of espresso machines and clinking cups buzzed in the background.
I told myself I came for the caffeine, but really, I just couldn't stay in that apartment another second. My roommate,God bless her lack of boundaries,had the emotional depth of a teaspoon and the volume of a megaphone. We'd argued over something small. Dishes. Doors. Silence. Doesn't matter.
The ache in my chest was too familiar. I needed to breathe somewhere else.
That's when I saw him.
He was standing near the pickup counter, notebook tucked under his arm, head slightly bowed as if the ground held more interest than people. He was tall. Calm. The kind of presence that didn't command attention, but still shifted the air when he entered a room.
Our eyes met,brief, accidental.
He nodded.
I blinked. Nodded back.
That was it. A two-second exchange. Nothing grand. No orchestral swell or thunderclap of recognition. Just a look. A pulse in the silence.
I didn't think it would mean anything.
I was wrong.
8:12 a.m.
I stared into the foam of my cappuccino, wondering when my life had started tasting like yesterday's coffee. Bitter. Weak. Reheated hope.
My journal lay open beside me.
"April 3rd. I feel invisible unless I'm bleeding on a page."
I hated that I wrote that. But it was true.
I glanced up again, against my better judgment.
He was writing now. Left-handed, I noted absently. His pen moved fast but with purpose. His notebook looked like it had seen years of storms and secrets. I was about to look away when he glanced up again,eyes warm, curious.
This time, he smiled.
I didn't.
Not yet.
8:27 a.m.
"D.K., your long black," Njeri called from the counter.
So that was his name. Or part of it. Initials? Maybe a nickname.
He stood slowly, long limbs unfolding like a book spine cracking open. He moved with a kind of stillness I hadn't seen before. Like his body didn't rush to be anywhere, because it trusted time to wait.
He took his coffee, said something to Njeri that made her smile, and then,he walked past the window tables, past the bar stools, and sat down at the table directly across from mine.
Not beside.
Not diagonal.
Across. Facing me.
I stared at him for a second.
He didn't speak.
Just sipped his drink, opened his notebook again.
I told myself it was a coincidence.
I didn't believe me.
8:31 a.m.
The café had filled up a little, but there were still plenty of other tables. I could feel the three meters of space between us like a wire pulled taut. I kept trying to ignore him, but my eyes drifted back.
There was something oddly safe about his silence.
I flipped back to my journal.
"He looks like someone who apologizes with his eyes before his mouth ever moves."
I snapped it shut immediately after writing that.
God. Who was I turning into?
9:10 a.m.
My seminar was starting soon, and I had exactly zero motivation to attend. But I couldn't afford to skip again,not if I wanted to keep my scholarship, not if I wanted to stay in the country, not if I wanted to keep pretending I had my shit together.
I gathered my things. Slid my journal into my bag, crumpled napkin and all.
When I stood, he looked up.
And I heard myself ask, "Do you always sit across from strangers and say nothing?"
He smiled slightly. That kind of crooked, knowing smile that felt older than him.
"Only when they look like they want to be left alone,but need someone not to leave."
My breath caught.
That shouldn't have affected me. It was just a line. But I felt it settle under my skin, like warmth after a long stretch of cold.
I exhaled a laugh before I could stop it.
9:12 a.m.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"D.K."
"That's not a name. That's a riddle."
He shrugged. "I'll tell you… eventually."
I narrowed my eyes, part-annoyed, part-intrigued.
He didn't push. Didn't flirt. Didn't ask for mine.
I left the café with a strange lightness in my chest. Not joy. Not interest. Just,lightness. Like I'd shrugged off a coat I didn't know I was wearing.
Later , 2:13 p.m.
Back in my room, I replayed the morning like a scene from a movie. I hated how often I thought in movie scenes.
I reopened my journal.
"D.K. Drinks black coffee. Talks like still water. Feels like a breath I didn't know I'd been holding."
I paused.
And added;
"I hope he's there again tomorrow."
I scrolled through my saved voice notes, needing to hear something real.
"Hey, I don't know if you're going to hear this right now, but… don't give up on your writing. I know it feels like nobody's reading you, but someone is. Someone always is. Okay? Okay."
Amina sent that six months ago. I hadn't listened to it in weeks.
I pressed play three times in a row.
Sometimes, I needed reminding that I mattered. Even when it felt like I was screaming into the void.
Somewhere else, I imagine him writing in that same weathered notebook.
"There's a woman who writes like she's surviving something. I wonder if she knows she's beautiful in the way storms are."
Maybe he closes the notebook.
Maybe he watches the door after I leave.
Maybe he'll be there again.
"This isn't a love story. Not yet. This is a story about space. And what happens when someone finally decides to stand in it with you."