Never Meet

The Face in the Glass

The next morning, Drea couldn't remember falling asleep. She only remembered light

- too bright, cutting through her blinds

and the bitter taste of fear still on her

tongue.

Coffee didn't help. Work didn't help. Every

reflection seemed wrong.

In the train window, in the café mirror, even

in her camera lens, she saw movement

where there shouldn't be any. That evening, she opened her front door to find a small, unmarked envelope. Inside:

printed photograph.

The same one she'd first seen of him, at

that café in Rome - only now, something

was different.

The reflection in his glass showed another

figure.

Her.

Same hair. Same necklace. Sitting across

from him.

A photograph that never existed.

She dropped the print. It slid beneath the

table, landing face-up, and she watched it

from the floor as if it might breathe.

Her phone buzzed once more. A new

message.

"Never meet. Never forget."

The tought of him still haunted her.....The tought of what if?London had become too loud for silence, too empty for memory.

By the second week of sleepless nights,

Drea booked the flight she swore she

never would.

Rome.

The city had lived in her mind like a fever -

sunlight spilling over stone, the hum of

languages she couldn't speak, the ghost of

a man she never met yet somehow

couldn't forget.

When she arrived, the air felt heavier than

she remembered, rich with warmth and

echoes. Every corner seemed familiar, even those she'd never seen.

The café was still there - same tables,

same vines spilling from the walls. But the

chair where he'd sat was gone.

She asked the waiter, in halting Italian, if

the owner was still around. He smiled,

shrugged, said the café had changed

hands last month.

Drea sat down anyway, at a different table.

Ordered an espresso.

Took out her phone.

For the first time in weeks, no messages.

Just silence.

But when she lifted her cup, she noticed

something scratched faintly into the metal table: "Do you still look?"