Meant To Miss, Destined To Meet

Chapter 7

Jack’s POV

The second her name lit up my screen again, my breath caught.

I didn’t even hear the office door swing open. Didn’t notice Quan walking in until he threw a folder on my desk with unnecessary flair.

“I said urgent, not romantic silence, Romeo,” he said.

I didn’t reply.

I couldn’t. Not yet.

Because there it was.

Her message.

Hi, Jack.

Thank you for the message. I don’t really know what to say, honestly.

But... I’m glad I walked in today too.

I stared at those words like they held more than what was written. Maybe they did. Maybe I was reading too much into it. Maybe I didn’t care.

She replied.

She didn’t block me. She didn’t shut me out.

She replied.

And that was everything.

“Okay, now I have to know,” Quan said, pulling a chair across from me and leaning forward like a nosy older brother.

I flipped the phone screen toward him.

He raised an eyebrow, nodded slowly. “Okay, okay... that’s soft.”

“She replied,” I said.

“She replied,” he repeated, like we were at a cult meeting for the emotionally unhinged. “And what exactly are you gonna do about it?”

That was a good question.

I didn’t want to come on too strong. Didn’t want to crowd her. She was already holding herself together with duct tape and sarcasm. I could see it all over her. This wasn’t the kind of girl you wooed with flowers and flashy cars.

This was the kind of girl you showed up for. Quietly. Consistently.

“She said she doesn’t know what to say,” I murmured, re-reading the message. “I don’t want to rush her.”

Quan leaned back, chewing his bottom lip in thought. “So… you wait?”

I nodded. “For now. She came in once. Maybe she’ll come in again.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“I’ll find her again.”

There was no doubt in my voice. I meant every word.

I spent the rest of the day pretending to work.

I stared at reports I didn’t read. Answered calls I didn’t remember taking. Smiled in meetings I had no interest in being a part of.

All I could think about was her message.

How it made something in my chest settle. Like I wasn’t chasing a ghost anymore. Like the story I’d built in my head was starting to breathe on its own.

At around 6 p.m., I texted her again—simple, soft.

If you ever want another coffee, I’d love to buy it. No pressure, no expectations.

Then I locked my phone and left it untouched.

That night, I walked past the coffee shop again on my way home, even though it was closed. The lights were off. The windows dark. But I stood outside for a moment anyway.

Because that little corner, that worn table where she sat for less than thirty minutes, already felt like the start of something.

Something real.