The petals began to fall harder in the late afternoon.
Outside the café window, the cherry tree had finally surrendered to the breeze, scattering soft pink across the sidewalk. People slowed to watch, some lifting their phones, others smiling without realizing why.
Inside, neither of them noticed at first.
He was drawing again—more confidently now. The lines came easier, flowing instead of hesitating. He didn't erase as much. He didn't pause as often. Every so often, he would glance up, just briefly, to make sure she was still there.
She was.
She sat with her hands wrapped around her cooling cup, watching him with an expression so gentle it almost hurt. Not because it was sad—but because it was honest. Because she wasn't trying to hide the fact that she liked being here, with him, in this quiet space that felt strangely theirs.
"You're different now," she said suddenly.
His pencil froze mid-stroke. "Different?"
She nodded. "When I first sat down, your lines were… careful. Like you were afraid of making a mistake."
He looked at the page, then back at her. "And now?"
"They're braver."
The word lingered between them.
"I think," she added softly, "you draw better when you're not alone."
He swallowed.
No one had ever said that to him before. No one had ever noticed the way his fear bled into his art—or the way it loosened when someone stayed.
He closed the sketchbook slowly and turned it toward her.
"Do you want to see it?" he asked.
Her eyes widened slightly. "Are you sure?"
He nodded.
She leaned closer, careful not to invade his space, but close enough that he could smell her shampoo—something light, almost floral. Her breath hitched when she saw the page.
It was her.
Not perfectly. Not realistically. But unmistakably. The softness of her eyes. The way her smile curved just enough to suggest kindness without certainty. He had captured not just her face, but the feeling she carried with her.
"I look…" She paused, searching for the word. "…safe."
His fingers tightened around the edge of the sketchbook. "That's how you feel."
She looked up at him then, truly looked at him.
"And you?" she asked. "How do I make you feel?"
He hesitated. The answer rose in his chest before he could stop it.
"Less afraid," he said.
The world outside seemed to quiet.
She smiled, but this time there was something different in it—something tender and vulnerable. "Then I'm glad I sat down."
They stepped outside together a few minutes later, the air cooler, the light softer. Cherry blossom petals brushed her hair, clung to his sleeve. He reached out without thinking, gently plucking one from her shoulder.
"Sorry," he murmured.
"It's okay," she said, not moving away.
They stood there, too close to be strangers, too far to be anything else yet.
As they parted ways, he watched her walk down the street, petals swirling around her like a promise.
Back inside, he opened his sketchbook again.
This time, he didn't erase a single line.