CHAPTER 5

Max hadn't meant to end up at a place called Beans & Prose.

He hated the name.

It sounded like a coffee shop that hosted open mic poetry nights where everyone clapped with their fingers instead of their hands. Or one of those spots curated by influencers who called mismatched furniture "intentional chaos." It was trying too hard, like it wanted to be on a Buzzfeed list titled 10 Places to Write Your Break-Up Novel With Aesthetic Sadness.

He only came here because every café near his apartment was packed. Overflowing with people who treated table-hogging like a competitive sport. Laptops. Power cords. Vision boards. All taken.

But Beans & Prose had two rare things: an empty booth by the window and coffee that didn't taste like boiled disappointment.

So he took it. Dropped his bag with a dramatic sigh, slid into the cracked vinyl seat, and opened his laptop like it might magically solve his writer's block.

It didn't.

The cursor blinked at him. Judgy. Blinking like a slow clap from someone who was unimpressed by his mental fog.

Max rubbed his eyes and took a sip of his drink—black, bitter, no sugar. It was strong enough to count as personality.

Still nothing on the page.

He tried again.

Typed a sentence. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too.

He'd been working on a screenplay. Romantic comedy, character-driven, low stakes. The kind of story that's supposed to feel effortless. But lately, his brain couldn't settle.

He blamed the texts.

More specifically, her texts.

Ellie.

He didn't know much about her. They hadn't exchanged pictures, last names, or even voices. Just messages. Random. Unexpected. But enough to stick in his head longer than they had any right to.

She worked at a coffee shop—Brew & Bloom—somewhere in the city. She had chaotic energy and an alarming number of bad luck stories involving espresso machines and jelly donuts. She used too many ellipses, and her texts sometimes came in rapid-fire bursts like her brain forgot it could send full paragraphs.

They were strangers. But not in the usual way.

Somehow, the digital distance had made her… real.

Not in a sentimental way. Max wasn't one for getting attached to people he hadn't met.

But curiosity had teeth.

And for reasons he didn't fully understand, she lingered in the back of his mind like a lyric he hadn't placed.

His phone buzzed.

Ellie:

Remind me never to become a detective.

Max smiled despite himself. He didn't know what she was referencing—probably one of her ridiculous café mysteries. Like the time she tried to "solve" who kept stealing the almond biscotti (spoiler: it was the manager).

Max:

Noted. Stick to coffee. You're probably less dangerous that way.

He considered adding a joke, something about her taking out a suspect with a milk frother, but let it go. Better not to overdo it.

As he reached for his cup again, a barista passed by in a red apron.

Max froze.

Something about the movement—the flash of red, the sound of her laugh—made his heart skip.

For just a moment, he thought, That's her.

Ellie.

Not the actual her. He had no idea what she looked like. But somewhere between the texts and the stories and the tone of her sarcasm, he had constructed a mental version of her. A face. A voice. A person.

In his mind, she had light freckles and expressive eyebrows. The kind that moved too much when she talked. She wore mismatched socks and probably hated decaf with religious fervor.

He blinked, reminding himself that he was being ridiculous.

The barista wasn't her. Too tall. Blonde ponytail. No freckles.

Of course it wasn't Ellie.

Ellie worked at Brew & Bloom. Which, now that he thought about it, he still hadn't Googled. He wasn't sure if not knowing made things better or worse.

He turned back to his laptop. The document remained aggressively blank.

His phone buzzed again.

Ellie:

Also, random thought.

You ever feel like you almost met someone you weren't supposed to?

Like… the universe moved the pieces too early, then changed its mind?

Max stared at the message.

Then read it again.

It hit him in a strange spot. Somewhere in the chest, just behind the bone where thoughts become feelings but haven't declared themselves yet.

He hovered over the keyboard.

Max:

Yeah. Like you were a second too soon to bump into fate.

But he didn't send it.

It felt too personal. Too... something.

He backspaced.

Then typed instead:

Max:

That's the most poetically sad thing I've read all week. You should copyright it before Taylor Swift does.

He hit send before he could change his mind.

Then sat back and let his mind wander.

What if it was real? That feeling?

What if people really did pass each other on streets, stand behind each other in line, share a bus pole without knowing they were supposed to meet later? What if the universe did try to connect you too early, then paused, realizing the timing wasn't right?

Maybe he and Ellie had crossed paths already.

Maybe she walked past him last week on Market Street. Maybe he held the elevator door open for her once. Maybe they were both at that terrible food truck festival two months ago where he swore he'd never eat "experimental fusion empanadas" again.

The idea settled over him like a fog. Soft. Unshakable.

He wasn't attached to her. That wasn't it. He barely knew her. But there was something in the rhythm of their conversations. The ease. Like skipping small talk entirely and arriving at some accidental middle.

Maybe it meant nothing.

Or maybe it meant he was starting to notice how often people almost mattered.

He glanced around the café. Wondered how many people had brushed past each other in this very room and never realized what they missed.

The door chimed as someone walked in. Max looked up instinctively.

A girl entered, shaking off her umbrella. Curly hair. Laughing at something on her phone.

Not Ellie.

Obviously.

He shook his head and forced himself to focus.

Back to writing.

He opened a new document. A fresh one. No expectations. Just a scene.

INT. COFFEE SHOP – DAY

A man sits alone in a booth. Laptop open. Half-full mug. He looks up—

And sees her.

But he doesn't know it.

She walks by without noticing.

They almost meet.

Almost.

He stared at the lines.

The cursor blinked.

He deleted the entire thing.

Too on the nose.

Too close.

The truth was, he didn't know what he wanted out of this not-thing with Ellie. It wasn't attraction. It wasn't friendship. Not yet. It was… curiosity. But layered. Like peeling an orange and wondering what's underneath the rind.

And a weird sense of déjà vu he couldn't place.

The feeling that maybe—just maybe—life was full of collisions that never happened.

He packed up his things.

On his way out, he paused by the counter. Ordered another coffee, not because he needed it, but because he needed time.

The barista handed it over with a bored expression.

Not Ellie.

Max stepped into the street. The sky had turned gray, clouds sagging like overworked metaphors.

Somewhere in the city, Ellie was probably clocking out of her shift. Or dodging whipped cream nozzles. Or texting someone else about bad decisions and worse playlists.

He didn't know where she was.

Didn't know if he'd ever meet her.

But for a second, he looked down the street and imagined it.

That they'd already passed each other.

In a crosswalk.

Or a bookstore.

Or on the train.

Maybe she had glanced up.

Maybe he had looked down.

Maybe the universe had nudged them once.

Then pulled back.

Not yet, it whispered.

Not yet.