When He Borrowed My Pen

DISCLAIMER 📍 ☆ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, places, events and incidents are either the products of my imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. ☆ This story may contain grammatical errors and incorrect spelling, as English is not my first language. I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause. Please feel free to let me know if you have any suggestions for improvement. ☆🔞 This story contains mature scenes; please be advised that it is a work of pure fiction. It contains swearing, kissing scenes, and violent scenes. ☆ All rights reserved. Please don't copy or repost any part of this story without the author's consent. ౨ৎ please leave a comment and vote. (I love reading them all ☆) *** He never said goodbye—he just left. And yet, here I am, still waiting. Same café. Same corner seat. Same quiet hum of the coffee machine that once played in the background of our almost-story. Everything feels the same... except he isn't here anymore. I'm in college little busier, a little braver. It's been two years since that afternoon—the one that started with a borrowed pen and a shy smile. The memory still plays in my mind like a scene I can't move on from. After graduation, he left. No messages. No proper goodbye. Just silence-and rumors that he went abroad to study. People told me to forget. To move on. How funny isn't it? But how do you move on from something that never even began? Because the truth is, I never left the restaurant. I'm still here waiting for the chef to serve me something I have been waiting for. I still keep that pen in my bag—silly, I know. But it reminds me that somewhere out there, he's living his dream. And maybe, just maybe, fate is still writing ours. Because I believe the right people always meet twice—once by accident, and once when they're finally ready. And when that day comes, I hope he asks for a pen again... so I can finally tell him how much I've missed him. "Iced Matcha Latte for Leigh!" the barista called. I walked through the café to grab my order, my mind floating somewhere else, lost in thoughts and half-forgotten daydreams. I didn't notice the person in front of me until it was too late—my cup slipped from my hand, spilling cold matcha all over his crisp suit. Oh no. I'm so screwed. "Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry, sir! I didn't see you-" I babbled, grabbing a napkin and frantically trying to blot the stain. Before I could finish, a hand gently gripped my wrist. "Leigh?" I looked up, and my heart nearly stopped. Those calm, familiar eyes—the same ones I'd been trying not to think about—were staring right at me. "Evan..." I whispered, stunned. How...how is he here? Everything around us seemed to blur, and for a moment, it was just him and me, and that impossible spark that had never really gone away. _______________________________________________ ౨ৎ