A Chance Encounter

"This is getting ridiculous," I muttered, forcing my eyes back to the laptop screen.

Across the café, a woman's sharp voice cut through the chatter. "I ordered an Americano, not an espresso!"

Sparkle Café, the new place in the market, was supposed to be my sanctuary—a quiet corner where I could coax long-forgotten words back to life. Three years. Three years of staring at blank screens, my creativity a dried-up well. I used to churn out short stories every day, tossing them onto social media like confetti. Now, even a single coherent sentence seemed out of reach.

I sipped my espresso, hoping the caffeine would wake up my brain. Nothing. Another sip, a few keystrokes, and then that voice broke my concentration again.

"But madam," the manager said, his patience wearing thin, "we don't have Americano on the menu. It's just espresso with hot water."

I couldn't take it anymore. A quick glance around showed no one else seemed fazed. Impulsively, I stood and walked toward the counter, where the woman, dressed sharply in a tailored office suit, clutched her coffee cup like it was a weapon. She was still arguing, her back to me.

"Ma'am," I said cautiously, "technically, an Americano is just diluted espresso."

Her tirade stopped. The café fell into silence, punctuated only by the hiss of the espresso machine.

"Exactly," the manager chimed in, relief flooding his voice. "That's what I've been trying to say."

The woman's shoulders dropped, and a soft "Oh" escaped her lips. She turned around slowly, and my breath caught. It was her—Sia. Her eyes met mine, recognition flickering, followed by a hesitant smile. "Rihan?"

"Sia?" My voice was rusty, unused, but the sound of her name sent a wave of memories crashing back.

Before I could say anything else, the manager, still hovering, cut in. "Ma'am, perhaps you could step away from the counter?"

Sia barely acknowledged him, her focus now on me. "Good to see you," she said, taking a step closer.

"Likewise," I managed, still processing the sudden turn of events.

"I'm surprised you remember me," she said, her smile widening.

Panic bubbled inside me. People who knew me understood my awkwardness around women—especially ones I admired. It wasn't a phobia, just a result of a sheltered upbringing and too many years in a single-gender school. But none of that excused what came out of my mouth next. "You… didn't know the difference between an Americano and an espresso?"

Her smile froze, and I immediately regretted it. I'd blown it. A chance reunion after all these years, and I'd managed to ruin it in seconds.

But then, to my surprise, Sia laughed—genuinely, the tension lifting between us. "Why are you flustered?"

Flustered? That wasn't the word I'd use. Heat crawled up my neck, and I took a step back, mumbling, "Sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

My brain was a blank, matching the story I had been failing to write all day. Before I could come up with an answer, the manager's voice, sharp with impatience, interrupted. "Please vacate the counter, sir."

I turned to Sia, fumbling for words. "Do you, um, maybe… want to have coffee at my table? I mean, only if you're free, no pressure, just—"

"Chill, Rihan," she said, her grin disarming. "I was going to suggest the same thing."

We both hurried to my table, escaping the manager's glare. As Sia sat down, I couldn't help but notice the sunlight catching her triangular earrings, the way her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders. She tucked it behind her ear as she leaned in to sip her coffee, her almond-shaped eyes framed by a touch of kohl. I quickly averted my gaze, pretending to type something important into my laptop.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," she said, her tone light.

I flipped the laptop closed with a sigh. "Not at all," I muttered, feeling the weight of unfinished stories pressing on me.

"Good that you remember me," she said, her voice playful but warm.

How could I forget? Graduation year. I'd been hiding in the library, lost in a book, when I first noticed her. For the first time, a face had distracted me from the world of fiction—her face. The memory tugged at me, but I pushed it aside.

A soft clink snapped me back to the present—her cup was empty.

"I don't forget people easily either," I replied, though the words felt hollow.

Her playful expression faltered. "You didn't even acknowledge my birthday message. That was pretty rude, you know."

"What?" I blinked, confused.

She pulled out her phone, tapped it a few times, and then held it out to me. The screen showed a familiar message: Happy Birthday, writer!

I stared, dumbfounded. "That was you?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Obviously. My username's right there." She paused, watching my reaction. "But I'm glad I sent it."

"Glad?"

She gestured at my laptop. "Three years. No stories, no updates. I thought you'd given up."

I wanted to tell her I had. That I'd stopped believing in the stories that once came so easily. But the words wouldn't come.

"Seeing you still writing," she continued, her voice soft, "it made me happy. You're still the same Rihan from college."

She started to gather her things, ready to leave. "I've got to go," she said, rising from her chair. "But it was nice catching up."

I watched her walk away, my heart heavy with unsaid things. Her message had been the spark I didn't realize I needed, the one that had jolted me out of my creative slumber. I pressed my face against the cool glass of the café window, watching her disappear into the crowd.

A silent wish formed in my mind: for another chance, another moment, where I might finally find the right words.