PART 1: A Hundred Missed Chances
The first time Claire saw Elliot, she almost missed him. Not because he wasn’t noticeable—he absolutely was, with messy hair, tired eyes, and the kind of quiet energy that made you wonder what he was thinking about. But because she wasn’t looking.
It was pouring outside, the kind of rain that felt too loud, too much. Claire was tucked under the metal awning of a closed bookstore, clutching her half-broken umbrella and silently hoping no one would try to make small talk. Her coat was damp. Her hands were freezing. And her mind? Loud. A dozen thoughts tumbling over one another like strangers on a train.
Elliot walked past her then, arms full of books like he was guarding something fragile. He didn’t notice her. Or maybe he did—just a glance. One of those brief flickers of connection that you feel more than see. Gone in a heartbeat.
Claire didn’t know it then, but that moment—quiet, blink-and-you-miss-it—was the beginning of everything.
---
PART 2: The Second Glance
They met again a month later.
Claire was sitting alone at a campus café, half-reading, half-eavesdropping, as always. She liked the background hum of chatter, but preferred not to be a part of it. Her world felt safer from the sidelines.
Then she saw him—Elliot. The boy from the rain. His sleeves were rolled up, glasses sliding down his nose, reading something with a frown of focus.
She didn't mean to stare.
But he looked up. And this time, he saw her.
Their eyes met. There was a beat. Just long enough to notice the shape of each other’s silence. He gave a small nod—acknowledging, not invasive.
Claire nodded back. That was all.
But it stayed with her for days.
---
PART 3: A Shared Table
The third time, the café was full.
Claire hesitated at the door. She could turn around. She probably should. But before she could decide, Elliot looked up from his corner seat, raised his hand slightly, and said, "Hey. You can sit here, if you want."
She blinked.
He gestured to the empty seat across from him. "I remember you. From last time. And... the bookstore."
Her lips curved slightly. "I remember you too."
She sat. They didn’t talk much. He read. She scribbled in her notebook. Occasionally their eyes met. Comfortable silence bloomed between them like warm steam in winter air.
When she left, he said, "Claire, right?"
She turned. Surprised. "Yeah."
"I’m Elliot."
She smiled. "I know."
He smiled too.
---
PART 4: Pages and Patterns
Their meetings became routine.
Claire didn’t mean to fall into a rhythm with him, but she did. Every Thursday, 4 p.m., same café, same corner. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t.
She learned that he loved philosophy and hated olives. That he had a younger sister who drew stars on his notes. That he always underlined in pencil, never pen.
He learned that she liked thunderstorms but not the aftermath. That she wrote poems she never showed anyone. That she flinched a little when people raised their voices.
He never asked why. She never offered. But there was understanding. Not in the words, but in the way he never pushed.
One day, he slid her a coffee without a word. No questions. Just quiet care.
Her hands shook when she took it. But only a little.
---
PART 5: The First Shiver
She didn’t know when she started looking forward to Thursdays. Or when her heart started skipping a beat at the thought of him being there.
He noticed things. Little things. Like how she traced the rim of her mug when she was anxious. How she tilted her head when she was curious. How she said “thank you” like it was sacred.
And she noticed him, too. How he always offered his last bite of cake. How he read the same paragraph twice if it made him feel something. How his eyes softened when he looked at her.
They weren’t dating.
They weren’t anything.
But she was falling. Slowly. Silently.
And maybe—just maybe—so was he.
---
PART 6: Almost Confessions
It was nearing winter when things started to change.
One evening, he asked, "Do you ever feel like you're waiting for something, but you don’t know what it is?"
She looked at him for a long time. "Every day."
His eyes didn’t leave hers. "Me too."
Silence. Then: "Claire?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you believe in timing? Like... maybe we meet people when we’re supposed to?"
She whispered, "I want to."
He smiled faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
She almost told him. That she looked for him in every room now. That Thursdays were the only day she didn’t feel alone. That maybe her heart had made a quiet home for him.
But she didn’t.
And neither did he.
---
PART 7: The Silence Between Words
Finals came. Then winter break.
No café. No corner seat. No casual hello.
Weeks passed.
Claire told herself it was nothing. That if it meant something, he would’ve reached out. That maybe it had only mattered to her.
But the ache didn’t listen to logic.
She missed him like a rhythm gone offbeat.
Then—on the first day back—she walked into the café and there he was. Same seat. Same smile.
She sat without asking.
"Hey," he said.
"Hi."
He hesitated. Then: "I missed this."
Her voice was soft. "Me too."
---
PART 8: The Almost Kiss
They walked home together after that. It was snowing lightly. She had gloves, he didn’t. So she gave him one of hers.
They walked with mismatched hands, laughing about how stupid it looked.
Then they stopped. At her door.
She turned to say goodbye.
He was looking at her differently. Like she was something worth remembering.
He leaned in—then stopped.
Their breaths touched.
But he didn’t kiss her.
And she didn’t move.
It hurt more than it should have.
He whispered, "I’ll see you Thursday."
She nodded, heart shaking.
He left.
She leaned against the door and closed her eyes.
Almost. Always almost.
---
PART 9: The Realization
The next Thursday, he didn’t come.
Nor the next.
Claire stopped going.
Weeks passed again. Empty, echoing weeks.
Then, one day, there was a note under her door.
Her hands trembled as she opened it.
Claire.
I’m sorry I disappeared. I was scared. Not of you—of how much I wanted you. And how much it would hurt if you didn’t want me back.
But then I realized something.
I’d rather risk everything than keep pretending you’re just another person in my life.
Meet me. Same place.
E.
---
PART 10: The Way You Looked at Me
She ran.
Through wind and rain and her own pounding heart.
He was there. Waiting. Just like he promised.
When he saw her, he stood up too fast, knocking over his chair.
She laughed. Breathless. Shaking.
He looked at her like she was sunrise after a sleepless night.
She walked straight to him. No hesitation. No almosts.
And kissed him.
Soft. Real. Certain.
When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers.
"I never want to look at anyone the way I look at you."
She smiled.
"Then don’t."
---
The End.
