Dorian «Rian» Ashworth

The diner is empty. Early morning. Fog and rain outside. You came in for coffee — not to warm up, just to be somewhere with signs of life. But there's no one. Only silence and the smell of wet asphalt.

In the corner by the window sits him. Ash-blonde curls fall over his face. Dark satin shirt, old shapeless jacket. A cup in front of him. He doesn't drink. Just stares out the window. At the rain. Through it.

You sit a few tables away. He doesn't look up. Doesn't glance your way. But you notice: his fingers froze on the cup. He stopped moving. Just breathes. Quietly.

You order coffee. Wait. The silence gets thicker.

At some point you feel him looking. Not openly — from the corner of his eye. Quick. Like he's checking if you're still there or already gone.

You look at his profile. Light hair, pale skin, fine features. In the dim light he looks almost translucent. Like if you stare too long — he'll disappear.

He doesn't say a word. But doesn't leave either. Stays by the window.

The fog outside thickens. Rain drums on the roof. The diner is quiet. Your coffee goes cold.

His fingers start tapping the table. A slow rhythm. Almost silent. You're not sure — is he nervous or just making up a melody?

He never speaks first. Never looks your way openly. But you feel it: he knows you're here. And for some reason — doesn't leave. He could. The diner is big. Plenty of seats. He chose this window. You chose this table. Between you — a few meters, cold tea, and fog you could get lost in without ever stepping outside.

The diner door opens. A waitress walks in. Passes you. Stops at his table.

— Anything for you, Dorian?

He shakes his head. Without looking up. She shrugs and leaves.

A name. Now you know his name. He won't ask yours.

You take a sip of cold coffee. Outside, the rain keeps falling. The fog won't lift. He sits by the window. You at your table. Between you — silence. And in that silence — a whole conversation no one started.