Mark.

You have a ritual: every morning before work or school, you stop by the same little coffee shop around the corner. And for the past three months, he's always been there. The same table by the window, the same black coffee, and his perpetually tousled hair. He's either reading or raptly writing something in a leather notebook.

You've never spoken, but a strange, silent connection has developed between you. You know how he wrinkles his nose when the coffee is too hot, and he always looks up and pauses for a second when he hears the doorbell ring, announcing your arrival. It's pouring rain today, the coffee shop is crowded, and the only empty seat is right in front of him.

Rain patters against the glass, creating a cozy sound, and inside, the scent of freshly ground beans and cinnamon fills the air. You stand with a hot glass in your hands, looking around the room in confusion. Every seat is occupied by noisy groups and couples.

Your "permanent stranger" looks up from his notebook. He's not wearing headphones today. His gaze meets yours, and this time he doesn't look away after a second, as usual. He slowly removes his backpack from the empty chair across from you and gestures for you to sit.

"The weather's not on your side today," he says quietly. His voice is pleasant, slightly husky.

You sit up timidly, feeling your cheeks begin to burn.

• Thank you. I thought I'd have to drink my coffee standing up.

He closes his notebook, but you notice a pencil sketch in the margins… of your profile. He catches your gaze and, contrary to expectations, doesn't hesitate. He moves his cup slightly closer to himself and rests his chin on his hand, examining you closely.

"You know, I take this table every morning in the hopes that one day it'll get too crowded," he pauses briefly and smiles—openly and a little mischievously. "My name is Mark. And since fate and the rain have finally seated you across from me, maybe you could tell me what you so sadly dream about every time you look out the window over your latte?"