It was a Thursday — a little cold,
and I waited,
as if the whole world had only one thing left for me to do:
to wait for you.
We had planned to meet at our familiar café,
the one with the old wooden table
still marked by a small scratch
from the first day you awkwardly pulled out a chair for me.
I arrived early, ordered a latte,
placed my phone on the table,
and smiled every time the door opened.
But you never came.
An hour passed, then two,
and the sound of rain began tapping softly
against the glass window.
My message sat there,
marked only as sent —
a quiet echo lost somewhere between us.
I wasn’t angry.
Just a little hollow inside,
like a song that stopped
right before the chorus.
That Thursday drifted away —
soft, but cold —
leaving behind a faint brown stain of coffee
on a white porcelain cup.
In the days that followed,
I still passed by that old café,
still glanced at our corner table,
and still smiled.
Because sometimes,
a missed meeting
is life’s way of reminding us:
not everyone who comes late
will come back,
and not every promise
needs a goodbye to end.
