The next day, I stay quiet.
I let the morning pass without touching it. Without chasing it. The warmth lingers beneath thought – gentle, soft, but I don't lean into it.
I work. I move through familiar patterns: colors, shapes, soft design work that pulls my hands but not my heart. The quiet suits me. The steady rhythm of small tasks steadies the restless hum beneath my skin.
I drink tea. I open windows. I fold clothes without thinking too much about the way the fabric feels between my fingertips.
It's not that I'm ignoring it. It's not that I'm ashamed.
I just want to see if I can hold it. Keep it exactly where it belongs.
And I do.
The day passes soft and ordinary. The warmth never leaves entirely – but it stays low, easy, something I carry without fear.
I don't need to move yet.
And for the first time, I feel certain that when I do, it will be by choice.
By late afternoon, I find myself back at the café.
It isn't planned. It's not part of any ritual. I just end up there, hands curled around a cup, the soft sounds of distant conversation filling the air around me.
She's there again.
The girl from before.
Dark hair falling neatly around her shoulders, eyes down on a book, posture composed. There's a stillness to her that catches me – something careful. Something self-contained.
I tell myself I'm not watching. But I notice.
Her fingers trace the edge of the page. She smiles – just barely – at something she reads, the corner of her lips curling in the smallest tilt.
Our eyes meet once.
Only briefly.
I look away first.
The warmth doesn't rise the way it did yesterday. It stays quiet, soft beneath thought. But I carry it still. Not sharp. Not urgent. Just… aware.
I finish my tea slowly. I don't speak to her. I don't move closer. But the thought lingers even as I step back into the afternoon light.
I could speak to her if I wanted to.
I won't.
But I could.
The house feels different when I return.
Not because anything has changed – everything is where I left it. The soft spill of afternoon light. The quiet press of air through open windows. The warmth of old wood under bare feet.
But something feels steadier now.
I change slowly. The fabric brushes softly against skin. I let my fingertips linger for a moment longer than necessary but don't move beyond that. I don't need to.
I sit by the window. Watch the sky shift. My hands rest quietly in my lap.
I think about the café. About the girl. About the way her eyes met mine without tension, without expectation. Something calm. Something unspoken.
I think about the warmth – steady now, not sharp, not chasing.
I know I could reach for it again. I know I could slip into it easily. But I don't.
Not tonight.
I let the quiet hold me. I let the thought settle.
When I move again, when I choose – it will be mine.
And the thought makes me smile.
Small. Soft.
Exactly where it belongs.