CAN I HELP YOU MY LOVE

POV: EVELYN CAMPBELL

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It started with a man sitting alone in my café.

Every evening at exactly 6 PM, he arrived, ordered black coffee, and sat at the farthest table by the window. He barely spoke to anyone, his eyes always lost in thought, staring at the city lights outside.

At first, I didn’t pay him much attention. But after a week, I noticed the sadness that clung to him like an old wound.

One night, as I wiped the counter, I found myself watching him again. He had the look of someone carrying too many burdens, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of his cup.

Before I could stop myself, I walked over.

"Would you like a refill?" I asked.

He looked up, startled, as if he hadn’t expected to be spoken to. His eyes—deep brown, holding stories I couldn’t read—met mine.

"No, thank you," he murmured.

I hesitated. "Are you okay?"

He stiffened slightly, his fingers curling. "I’m fine."

Liar.

But I didn’t push. Instead, I offered a small smile. "Well, if you ever need to talk… I’m a good listener."

For a moment, he didn’t respond. Then, something flickered in his gaze—something raw.

"Thank you," he said softly.

And that was the beginning.

His name was Adrian.

He didn’t offer much about himself at first. But as the days passed, he started talking more.

Not about his past.

Not about his pain.

But small things—his love for classical music, the books he enjoyed, the way he used to play the piano as a child.

Each night, our conversations grew longer. And with every word, I found myself wanting to know more.

But I also saw the walls he had built around himself.

One night, I asked, "What do you do for a living?"

He hesitated before replying, "I was a surgeon."

"Was?"

His jaw tightened. "I left."

"Why?"

A shadow crossed his face. "Because I couldn’t save her."

Silence fell between us.

I didn’t ask who she was. Not yet.

But I knew then—Adrian wasn’t just a man sitting alone in a café.

He was a man haunted by the past.

Days turned into weeks.

One evening, after closing the café, I found him still sitting by the window, staring at the rain.

I slid into the seat across from him. "Talk to me, Adrian."

He exhaled slowly. "You don’t want to hear it."

"I do."

He hesitated. Then, in a broken whisper, he said, "Her name was Olivia."

My heart clenched.

"My fiancée," he continued. "She was in a car accident. I was the one who operated on her."

I held my breath.

His voice shook. "I did everything I could. But… I lost her."

Tears burned in my eyes as I whispered, "Adrian…"

"I was a surgeon," he murmured. "I was supposed to save lives. And I couldn’t even save the woman I loved."

I reached for his hand. "It wasn’t your fault."

But he pulled away. "You don’t understand. I—" His voice cracked. "I should have been better. Faster. Smarter. Maybe then…"

He trailed off, his pain swallowing the words.

And for the first time, I saw the depth of his wounds.

Adrian didn’t just lose Olivia.

He lost himself.

The next night, he didn’t come.

Or the night after that.

By the third day, I couldn’t ignore the ache in my chest. I found myself walking through the city, hoping to see him.

I found him by the river, staring at the water.

"You disappeared," I said, my voice softer than I intended.

He didn’t look at me. "I didn’t think you’d notice."

I sat beside him. "I did."

A long silence passed. Then, he asked, "Why do you care?"

I hesitated before answering, "Because I know what it’s like to feel lost."

For the first time, he turned to face me.

And then, something I hadn’t seen before happened.

He smiled.

Not fully. Not brightly.

But enough to make my heart skip.

Adrian started coming to the café earlier.

He started reading again. Playing piano again.

Laughing again.

Slowly, the grief that once consumed him began to loosen its grip.

One night, as we walked through the quiet streets, he stopped. "Evelyn."

I turned. "Yeah?"

He hesitated. Then, in a voice laced with something new, something fragile yet hopeful, he said, "Can I help you, my love?"

My breath hitched. "What?"

"You spent all this time helping me," he murmured. "But I never once asked… what about you?"

Tears pricked my eyes.

Because after all this time, after all the pain, after all the nights of quiet conversations—Adrian was finally ready to live again.

And he wanted to live for me.

Months later, on a quiet evening, he kissed me for the first time.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t desperate.

It was a promise.

Of new beginnings. Of healing. Of love.

He had lost once.

But now, he was found.

And so was I.

❤️ THE END❤️

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