The sky hung low and pale that morning, washed in the kind of grey that carried no promise neither of rain nor of sunshine.
It was the sort of sky that made Amara feel suspended between two worlds, like a song caught in the middle of a note.
She adjusted the strap of her tote bag and crossed the street, the scent of freshly brewed coffee mixing with the sharp smell of Lagos traffic. The world around her was restless and alive, hawkers shouting prices, engines growling, radios humming from passing buses but inside, she felt still.
Her phone buzzed again. Another message. Another reminder of everything she was trying to leave behind.
She didn't open it.
Amara had grown used to that tug in her chest, the one that came with every unread notification from people she once called hers. Her therapist had said time would dull it, but time, so far, had been slow and stubborn.
When she entered the co-working building, the air-conditioning greeted her like a sigh of relief. She came here every morning, not just to write but to disappear into other people's sounds, the clicking of keyboards, the hum of printers, the comfort of routine.
She took her usual seat by the window, opened her laptop, and stared at the blank document. The cursor blinked like a heartbeat.
She typed a sentence. Deleted it. Tried again.
Her thoughts drifted, as they often did, to the things she didn't say when her last relationship ended. George had wanted space; she had given him air. Too much, maybe. Enough for both of them to suffocate.
"Still chasing ghosts," she murmured to herself.
And that was when she heard it—his voice.
Low. Calm. Unhurried.
Amara turned slightly, pretending to stretch. A man stood by the coffee machine a few tables away, head bent as he scrolled through his phone. His shirt sleeves were rolled up neatly, revealing strong, tanned forearms. His movements were quiet but deliberate, like someone used to being in control of his silence.
He looked up once, just once, and their eyes met.
It wasn't one of those movie stares that lasted forever. It was brief, accidental, the kind of glance people exchange when time forgets to move for a second.
Still, something shifted.
He smiled politely, the corner of his mouth curving slightly, and went back to his phone. But Amara found herself holding her breath.
She tried to focus on her screen again, but her thoughts wandered. There was something about him, something grounded and distant all at once. She wondered what he did, what stories hid behind that quiet presence.
A few minutes later, she noticed he was looking for a place to sit. Every table was occupied except the one opposite hers. Their eyes met again, and this time, he spoke.
"Is this seat taken?" His voice was soft but carried through the noise like water through still air.
Amara hesitated. "Uh, no. You can sit."
He nodded, setting his laptop down. "Thanks."
She expected silence to follow, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind that felt… peaceful. Like they both understood that not all spaces needed words.
For a while, the only sound between them was the clinking of mugs and the rain that had begun to fall outside, soft, rhythmic, tender.
Amara typed a few lines, sneaking glances when she thought he wouldn't notice. He had dark hair that curled slightly at the ends and a subtle scent, something woody, like cedar and rain. When he smiled to himself, it was almost shy.
After a while, he spoke again without looking up.
"You write?"
She blinked. "Trying to."
"What about?"
She hesitated, then said softly, "People, mostly. How they leave. How they come back. Sometimes how they never really do."
He looked at her then, really looked. The kind of gaze that sees beyond skin and finds something deeper.
"That's brave," he said quietly.
She smiled faintly. "Or foolish."
"Maybe both," he said. "But the world needs both."
He returned to his laptop, and Amara's heart stirred with something she hadn't felt in a while,
interest. Curiosity. Warmth.
Outside, the rain grew heavier, streaking the windows in silver threads. Amara glanced up at the sky, then at the stranger across from her.
She didn't even know his name yet. But something told her that under this same sky, something was shifting, slowly, silently, and inevitably.
She exhaled, whispering to herself as her fingers began to type again.
"Strangers under the same sky."
And though she didn't realize it yet, that sentence would become more than just her story's title—it would become the beginning of everything.