~whispers between the raindrops~

The rain always found her on Thursdays. Lena Hart stood under the narrow awning of Café Aubrey, watching the drizzle blur the colors of the city like watercolor on paper. She held her coffee close, its warmth soaking into her fingers. Thursdays were for writing, but today, the words refused to come. She blamed the rain—or maybe the man who sat across from her every week and never said a word. He was there again. Same table by the window. Same leather-bound notebook and worn black coat. Hair damp with rain. He never looked up, not even when the bell over the door chimed. But Lena noticed him. Every Thursday for the past month, she’d found him here at 3:00 p.m., and every time, he wrote like the world might end if he stopped. She didn’t even know his name. A breeze swept past as someone opened the door behind her, the chill chasing her inside. She walked past his table—slowly, casually—but her eyes lingered. He was writing again, his hand moving fast. His brow furrowed. He looked like he carried storms inside him. She picked the booth behind him and opened her laptop. Blank document. Blinking cursor. Nothing. The waitress, a cheerful woman named Daria, placed a fresh croissant beside her cup. “Your mystery man’s here again,” she said under her breath, smirking. Lena smiled. “You mean the brooding author with the notebook and the don’t-talk-to-me vibe? No idea who you're talking about.” Daria winked. “You know I’ll get his name eventually. I’m a professional.” But Lena didn’t want to know. Not yet. There was something about the mystery—about wondering what words filled those pages. He was a question mark in her otherwise too-predictable life. As the rain picked up, a page turned. He paused, then looked up—right at her. Lena froze. It was the first time he’d ever looked. His eyes were the color of storms, quiet and fierce all at once. He didn’t smile. Just nodded once, like he saw her too. Then he went back to writing. And just like that, the words came back to her.