Alexandra told herself she wouldn't think about the man from the café.
She failed before lunchtime.
It wasn't his face exactly—though she could still picture the quiet kindness in his eyes—it was the way he had looked at her without expectation. No hunger. No judgment. Just presence. That alone unsettled her more than flirtation ever could.
By the time she returned to her apartment that afternoon, her thoughts felt cluttered. She set her bag down, kicked off her shoes, and stood in the middle of the living room, unsure what to do with herself. The stillness pressed in. Divorce had given her freedom, but freedom came with empty hours she was still learning how to fill.
She opened the windows, letting sunlight pour in, then turned on music—soft, instrumental, something that wouldn't demand too much from her heart. Cleaning helped. It always did. She wiped counters that were already clean, folded laundry that didn't need folding, rearranged books just to feel some sense of order.
But her mind kept drifting.
It meant nothing, she reminded herself. A smile is just a smile.
Still, that night, as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, Alexandra realized something had changed. The wall she had built so carefully around herself had developed a hairline crack. She wasn't in love. She wasn't even interested. But she was aware again—and awareness was dangerous.
The following week brought routine back into her life. Work deadlines, morning traffic, grocery lists. Alexandra immersed herself in normalcy, grateful for its predictability. Healing, she was learning, wasn't dramatic. It was quiet. It happened in the small decisions—to get up, to eat, to engage with the world even when retreat felt safer.
On Thursday evening, Mira called.
"You're coming with me," she announced.
"Coming where?"
"A small community fundraiser. Art, music, wine. You need to get out of your apartment before you start narrating your plants' life stories."
"I don't have plants."
"Exactly my point."
Alexandra hesitated. Crowds still made her uneasy, especially spaces where couples naturally gravitated toward each other. But she also knew Mira wouldn't let this go.
"Fine," she said at last. "But I'm leaving early."
The gallery buzzed with low conversation and clinking glasses. Warm light reflected off white walls lined with paintings—bold strokes, quiet abstracts, stories without words. Alexandra moved slowly, letting herself take it all in. It felt good to be somewhere that celebrated creation instead of endings.
Then she heard his voice.
She didn't recognize the words, just the sound—steady, thoughtful, unmistakable. Her body reacted before her mind could catch up. When she turned, her breath caught.
It was him. The café man.
He stood a few feet away, speaking to an older woman, his hands moving subtly as he explained something about the artwork in front of them. Up close, he seemed even more real. There were faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the kind that came from genuine smiles. He wore a simple button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up, casual but intentional.
Alexandra's first instinct was to leave.
Her second was to stay perfectly still, as if that might make her invisible.
"Alex?" Mira leaned in. "You okay?"
"That's him," Alexandra whispered before she could stop herself.
"The café guy?"
She nodded.
Mira grinned. "Oh, this is interesting."
"No. It's coincidental."
"Uh-huh. And I just happen to love free wine."
As if summoned by fate, his gaze lifted and found hers. Recognition flickered across his face, followed by surprise—and then that same gentle smile. This time, he didn't look away.
Instead, he walked toward her.
Every step felt like thunder in Alexandra's chest.
"Hi," he said, stopping at a respectful distance. "We keep running into each other."
She swallowed. "I was just thinking the same thing."
"I'm Daniel," he offered. "From the coffee shop… and now here."
"Alexandra," she replied. "Alex is fine."
"I won't forget," he said, and there was something in his tone—careful, sincere—that made her believe him.
They stood there for a moment, suspended in possibility.
"Do you like the art?" he asked finally.
"Yes," she said, exhaling. "It feels honest. Like the artist wasn't trying to impress anyone."
Daniel smiled. "That's exactly why I like it too."
Mira cleared her throat loudly. "I'm going to… vanish. Slowly. Don't mind me."
Alexandra shot her a warning look, but Mira was already gone.
Silence settled—not awkward, just unhurried.
"I hope this isn't strange," Daniel said, "but would you like to walk around together? No pressure. Just conversation."
Alexandra's instincts screamed caution. This was how it started. A simple yes. A small step toward something she wasn't sure she could survive again.
But she also remembered the ocean. The waves starting over without fear.
"Yes," she said softly. "I'd like that."
As they moved through the gallery, talking about art, work, and the little details of life, Alexandra felt something unfamiliar bloom in her chest. Not love. Not yet.
Trust, maybe.
And for the first time since her divorce, she allowed herself to imagine that her story didn't end with loss.
It might just be beginning again.