Strangers Again

She spots him near the café window just as the rain begins to fall — not heavy, not dramatic, just enough to blur the line between past and present.

He’s older now, of course. Less hair. A little more quiet in the shoulders. But the way he stirs his coffee with the spoon still in his left hand? His eyes, his lips, the broad shoulders, the presence. She’d know that anywhere.

She didn’t mean to walk in.

He looks up as the bell above the door jingles, and their eyes meet.

Then — just as she starts to turn away — he says it:

“Do I know you?”

The café smells of orange peel and cinnamon. Nothing like the places they used to frequent, but it carries the same kind of warmth — that old wood-paneled, dusty-book comfort. She stands there, soaked at the edges, her blonde hair slightly frizzed from the damp. And for a moment, she wants to lie. “No,” she could say. “You don’t.”

But she doesn’t. Because maybe he deserves the truth. Maybe she does too.

“Ellie,” she says, sliding into the seat across from him. “Eleanor. You used to call me Elle.”

He squints, looks deep into her eyes — and suddenly, something fragile shifts in his face, like memory cracking through frost.

“Elle… Elle?” he repeats, as if testing the name on his tongue. Then, softly, “My God.”

She lets out a breath. “It’s been a while.”

“Twenty years,” he says without hesitation. “Since Vienna.”

She flinches. Not because he remembered — but because she did everything she could not to.

Their story had begun in light: a gallery opening, her third month in Europe, both of them orbiting the same circle of intellectuals and artists. He was a writer — or trying to be. She was studying restoration but secretly writing poems in the margins of her notebooks. They bonded over Kafka and Klimt, old jazz records and Turkish coffee. Nights that turned into mornings.

They fit perfectly, in that reckless, too-fast way people sometimes do. Like matching bruises. Was it love? It was certainly deep, instant. Burning desire. Like wildfire — fast, consuming, almost dangerous in its intensity.

There was one night. No music. Just the hum of the city outside. They danced alone in the center of his tiny apartment — holding hands, eyes closed, slow, wordless — She remembered the smell of his skin, the way his fingers trembled slightly when he touched her cheek. The tender kisses on her freckled nose. The soft bites on her chin. The brush of his lips on her neck. He had said, “You inspire me. I want to write about you one day.” And she had laughed, not knowing it would become a prophecy.

And then it fell apart — too soon, too fast. Not with a bang, but with a letter. A job offer for him in Berlin. A flight home for her to care for a mother who was suddenly, irreversibly ill. As life happens. They said they’d try. That the distance would make the heart grow fonder. But emails slowed. Calls went unanswered. Promises were made. None were kept. She disappeared.

Now, he stirs his coffee again — clockwise, always clockwise — and says, “You look good.”

“So do you,” she responds.

A lie. He looks tired. Maybe she does too. But it feels kind, and kindness is currency in these encounters.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” he admits.

“I did,” she says, surprising them both.

He tilts his head.

“I came back to Vienna two years ago. Walked by that same gallery. It’s a bike shop now.”

He chuckles. “Of course it is.”

“I thought I saw you once, at Karlsplatz. You were standing by the fountain. But it wasn’t you.”

He’s quiet for a while. Then: “I looked for you, Elle. I looked for you. For a while.”

She stares at the little sugar packets on the table, lips pressed. “What happened to us?”

“You left,” he says.

“You let me,” she replies.

It’s not accusatory. It’s not even bitter. Just a fact.

He nods slowly. “I was young, Elle. I thought... if we were meant to find each other again, we would.”

She smiles, sad and small. “And now we have.”

They stare at each other for a moment. Then they talk. About nothing at first. Then about life. About work. She teaches now. He edits. They never married. No kids. He had a dog once — a golden retriever named Max. She had a string of orchids she kept killing, one after another. He tells her about his sister’s wedding, the novel he never finished, the year he got pneumonia in Lisbon. She speaks of quiet birthdays, the poems she never published, the old apartment above the bookstore that always smelled like ink.

“I used to think orchids were resilient,” he says.

“They are. Just not with me.”

They sit in silence as the rain becomes steadier. The world beyond the café window is smeared in silver. A group of students rush by, laughing. A cyclist nearly slips in a puddle. Inside, the world is still.

He finally speaks. “I wrote about you. In my second book. You probably wouldn’t recognize yourself, but—”

“I read it.” She replies.

He blinks.

“You changed my name, but not the story.”

“I didn’t think you’d ever read it.” He says.

“I didn’t think you’d ever write it.”

He smiles, sheepish. “Guilt’s a hell of a muse.”

She laughs then — really laughs — and it slices through the tension like sunlight through clouds.

A waitress passes, refills their cups. The world keeps turning.

“Do you still write?” he asks.

She hesitates. “Sometimes. Late at night. Things I don’t show anyone.”

“Would you ever let me read one?”

She gives him a look — half-curious, half-defensive — then shrugs. “Maybe.”

They fall quiet again. Not awkward. Just full.

Eventually, she glances at her watch. “I should go now.”

He doesn’t ask her to stay. And that hurts more than if he had.

She stands. The rain’s stopped, but her coat is still damp.

He watches her, then rises too. “Do you want to—?”

She waits.

“I don’t know. Start again?”

She thinks about it. About who they were. Who they are now. The years lost. The people they became in the absence of each other. The questions that might never be answered.

“You’re not the same man,” she says.

“No,” he agrees. “And you’re not the same woman.”

She steps closer. “That’s not a bad thing, you know.”

He exhales. “No. It’s not.”

They linger.

And then, as she reaches for the door, she turns back.

“Maybe coffee. Same time next week?”

His face lights up — not dramatically, just enough.

“I’d like that.”

She smiles. “Good. Then maybe you’ll remember me next time.”

As she leaves, he stands there, hand resting on the back of her chair. The world outside is brighter now. He watches until she’s out of sight, then sits back down and takes another sip of lukewarm coffee. His eyes water. His heart pounds — not loudly, but steadily. He just sits there, suspended.

This time, he stirs it counterclockwise.

He never saw her again.