The Second Visit

The next morning, Owen woke up with the sound of the rain still fresh in his mind. The city was quieter after a storm, as if the streets themselves were still half-asleep, recovering. But his thoughts weren’t on the weather anymore—they were on her.

Lila.

He tried to brush it off, telling himself it was just a fleeting encounter. People met by chance every day; not every meeting meant something. And yet, the memory of her soft smile, her steady gray eyes, and the way her words seemed to settle into his chest like warmth refused to leave him.

By afternoon, he found himself walking back toward the café. He told himself it was because he liked the quiet atmosphere, because he could sketch there or sip coffee away from the noise of the city. But he knew that wasn’t the truth.

The bell chimed as he stepped inside.

And there she was again.

Lila sat at the same corner table, notebook open, her hand gliding gracefully across the page. When she noticed him, her lips curved into a faint smile—not surprised, not startled, but almost as if she had been expecting him.

“You came back,” she said softly, her tone carrying a trace of amusement.

“Yeah,” Owen admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “Guess the rain brought me here again.”

“It’s not raining,” she replied, her eyebrow raised.

He chuckled. “Okay, maybe I came here for the coffee.”

Lila tilted her head, eyes flickering with playful disbelief. “Or maybe you came for the company.”

Her words caught him off guard. There was no teasing edge to them, no cruelty—just quiet honesty. He didn’t know how to answer, so he simply smiled and slid into the chair across from her.

For a while, neither spoke. Owen ordered a cup of black coffee, while Lila returned to her sketch. He tried not to stare, but curiosity tugged at him.

“What are you drawing today?” he asked finally.

She turned the notebook toward him. It was the café again, but this time, there was a figure sitting near the window. He leaned closer and realized with a jolt—it was him.

“That’s… me?” he asked, incredulous.

Lila’s lips curved into a quiet smile. “You looked interesting yesterday. Like someone who doesn’t know he belongs here, but somehow does.”

He blinked at her words, unsure whether to feel flattered or exposed. “I didn’t know I was such a subject of art.”

“You are now,” she said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

They fell into conversation again, easier this time. Owen learned she was studying architecture but often escaped into sketching when the weight of calculations and blueprints became too much. She told him she loved rainstorms because they slowed the world down, making every detail stand out.

In return, Owen confessed his struggle with his own art. He was passionate about painting but often felt paralyzed by doubt, afraid his work wasn’t good enough.

“Perfection doesn’t exist,” Lila said firmly. “But honesty does. That’s what makes art real—when it tells the truth about how you see the world.”

Her words stayed with him. They were simple, yet they sank deep, like seeds planted quietly in his mind.

When the sky outside began to darken, Owen realized how quickly the hours had slipped away. He felt no urge to leave, though. For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t thinking about deadlines or expectations—just the steady rhythm of their voices and the soft glow of the café lights.

As he stood to go, Lila closed her notebook. “You’ll come back again, won’t you?”

He hesitated only a moment. “Yeah. I will.”

And as he stepped back into the cool evening air, Owen realized that something had already shifted inside him. The world felt a little brighter, a little lighter—because now, he had a reason to return.

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