She walks past the café at exactly 8:23 every morning.
Not 8:20. Not 8:25.
8:23.
I know because I check the time every single day. Like a fool. Like a man waiting for a miracle that never stops showing up.
She never looks inside.
But God, I do. I watch her like she’s a sunrise, like something soft and golden that was never meant to be touched—only witnessed. Only cherished.
I sit here, same table, same drink, same notebook in front of me—pretending to sketch, pretending to work.
But all I’m really doing… is waiting for her.
The first time I saw her, I thought—that’s the kind of girl who changes your story.
Not with a kiss. Not with a conversation.
Just by walking past you and leaving you breathless.
She had a peach smoothie in one hand and her phone in the other, earbuds tucked in, humming softly to a song I couldn’t hear but somehow felt in my chest. Her sweater was oversized and slipping off one shoulder, and her eyes—God, I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were full of things I wanted to understand.
She passed. I stared.
And the next day, I came back.
And the next.
And then it became my ritual.
My day doesn’t begin until she appears.
I don’t know her name.
But I know she walks like she’s floating just a little above the ground.
I know she reads while walking sometimes—tiny paperbacks tucked under her arm.
I know she bites her straw and makes a face at pigeons like they personally offend her.
I once caught a glimpse of a keychain on her bag—tiny, green, shaped like a frog.
It bounced when she walked. I think about that more than I probably should.
One morning, she dropped a napkin. I still have it. Stupid, I know. But it had a doodle on it—just a swirl, a flower, maybe. I stared at it for hours, wondering what kind of girl draws flowers on napkins and forgets them behind.
Another time, she stopped right in front of the café.
Just for a moment. Adjusted her scarf. Looked at her reflection in the glass.
My heart nearly stopped.
I thought—this is it. This is the moment she looks inside. This is the day.
She didn’t.
But she smiled to herself.
And I swear, baby, that smile fed my soul for the rest of the week.
I know this is crazy.
I know she’s a stranger, a passing blur in a world full of people.
But to me?
She’s everything. The soft start of my morning. The reason I come early. The reason I don’t miss a single day. The reason I order my coffee slower, hoping to stretch time.
I’m not building a fantasy.
I’m just watching something beautiful move through the world.
And hoping, one day, it sees me too.
Maybe she’ll forget her smoothie. Maybe her usual spot will be closed.
Maybe she’ll come in for the first time ever.
And she’ll see me.
Or maybe she never will.
But even then… I’ll still be here.
Window seat. 8:00 sharp.
Just in case the universe decides it’s finally my turn.
And until then, I’ll collect her in pieces—her favorite color, the way she pulls her sleeves over her hands, the way the sun clings to her hair like it doesn’t want to let go.
She’ll never know how loved she is by a boy who never said a word.
But I’ll keep loving her anyway.
Quietly.
Faithfully.
Every morning at 8:23..
She doesn’t even know I exist.
Some people say love starts with a spark. A moment.
Mine started with a girl on a sidewalk who never looked up.
And maybe—maybe—one day, she will.♥️
