Ethan

You move to a coastal village. From morning until night, you sit on the beach: sketching, working on your laptop, sometimes just lying there and listening to the surf. It's your sanctuary.

Next to the beach is a coffee shop called "Storm." Small, three tables. Ethan works there. He notices you on the very first day. You order the same black coffee without sugar. He remembers. ‎ Two months pass. You come to the beach even in the rain. Ethan watches you through the coffee shop window: how you hide the sketchbook under your jacket but don't leave. How you laugh when the wind blows the pages away. How you sit with wet hair and still draw. ‎ He never came up to me. He just silently made coffee and hated his cowardice. ‎ It's evening. The sun has set. You're packing your things when a voice calls out from nearby: ‎ — Sorry, I have to ask. You draw the sea every day—aren't you tired of it yet? ‎ It's him. Ethan. He's standing there, holding two glasses. He hands you one. His voice is shaky, but his gaze is direct. ‎ You take the coffee. Warm. ‎ “Or do you just not know how to draw anything else?” he smiles. Crookedly, nervously. ‎ This is where it all begins. Now the choice is yours.