In a small, quiet town nestled between two hills, there was a cafe called "The Painted Leaf." The walls were thick with memories, and its wooden tables had seen more conversations than could be counted. It was here, on a cloudy afternoon, that Atif sat, stirring his coffee absentmindedly as he watched the rain fall outside.
It was his habit to come here. Every Wednesday at 4 p.m., he would take the corner seat by the window. A simple routine, nothing special about it-except for the fact that every Wednesday, without fail, Adiba would walk through the door, always at 4:15 p.m.
Their interactions had been brief at first. A polite smile exchanged between strangers who shared the same corner of the cafe, each lost in their own thoughts. But over time, those brief moments became longer stares, soft hellos, and eventually, words shared over the space between their tables.
"Do you believe in fate?" Adiba had asked one Wednesday, her fingers wrapped around a cup of tea, her eyes fixed on the raindrops trailing down the window.
Atif blinked, "Fate? Like everything is planned out for us?"
She nodded her eyes still on the rain. "I mean, isn't it strange how we always end up here at the same time?"
Atif chuckled softly. "Maybe we just like coffee at the same hour."
Adiba smiled, but there was something wistful in it, something Atif couldn't quite place. "Or maybe there's more to it than that," she said, her voice trailing off as if the thought was too large for words.
They had never exchanged numbers or last names. There was no need. Every Wednesday, like clockwork, they would both show up at the same café. Their conversations had begun to stretch beyond polite pleasantries into something more personal, more intimate. But still, they both seemed content to leave it at that , in the likes of an unspoken agreement-no expectations, no commitments, just the comfort of each other's presence.
One Wednesday, however, Adiba didn't show up.
Atif glanced at his watch. 4:15. Then 4:30. Then 5. She had never been late before, let alone absent. For the first time in months, he finished his coffee alone. The next Wednesday, she didn't come either. The same thing happened the week after. Each week, Atif would sit at the corner table by the window, watching the rain, wondering where she was, if she was okay. But she never walked through the door again.
Weeks turned into months. The rain came and went, but Adiba remained a memory. Atif found himself thinking about her more than he had ever expected to, wondering what had happened, why she had disappeared without a word. Was it something he had said? Was it something in the air that day, a silent decision that they would never acknowledge aloud?
Finally, on a particularly cold Wednesday evening, Atif walked into "The Painted Leaf" with a feeling he couldn't shake. He sat at his usual table, ordered his usual coffee, but this time, something was different. A folded piece of paper was resting on the table.
He stared at it for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest, before slowly reaching out and unfolding it.
Dear Atif,
I'm sorry. I didn't want it to be like this, but I didn't know how else to do it. You were never supposed to be more than a stranger to me. It was just a café, just a place to pass time, but somehow you became more than that. I was never meant to stay here, you know. This town was just a stop on my way to somewhere else. I never intended to leave anything behind. I didn't want to hurt you. But I couldn't keep coming here, sitting across from you, pretending that things could be different. I don't believe in fate anymore.
Maybe you were right all along. Maybe we just like coffee at the same hour.
- Adiba
Atif read the note over and over, the words blurring together in his mind. He couldn't tell if he felt relief or sorrow, or perhaps both at once. He folded the paper back up and placed it in his pocket.
"One more coffee?" the cafe boy asked, noticing the silence that lingered around him.
He nodded absently, not really tasting the drink that was placed in front of him.
Weeks passed. Atif continued his visits to the cafe, out of habit more than hope. He would sit at his corner table, order his coffee, and watch the rain. Sometimes he would unfold Adiba's note and read it again, trying to find a new meaning in the familiar words.
"Hey."
The voice startled him. Atif looked up, and there she was-Adiba, standing in front of him, as if she had never left. She looked different, though. There was something quieter about her, something heavier.
"Can I sit?"
Atif nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
She sat across from him, just like she had done so many times before. For a long time, neither of them said anything. The silence between them was thick, almost unbearable.
"I thought you left," Atif finally said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"I did," Adiba replied. "But I came back."
"Why?"
She looked down at her hands, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. "I don't know."
Atif exhaled slowly, his mind racing. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, but none of them felt right. Finally, he settled on, "I kept waiting."
"I know," she said quietly. "I didn't want you to."
"Why not?"
Adiba looked up, her eyes filled with something Atif couldn't quite name.
"Because this was never supposed to be anything. I didn't want it to be. But it became something anyway. And I didn't know what to do with that."
For a moment, there was silence again. The rain outside had turned to a soft drizzle, barely audible against the windows.
"So, what now?" Atif asked.
Adiba shook her head. "I don't know."
Neither of them moved, nor spoke. The rain continued to fall, soft and steady, as if it had no end.
And in the quiet of "The Painted Leaf," two people sat together, each wondering what could have been, and what never would be.
The sound of rain dropping creating a musical harmony hence, both of them are sitting face to face but none of them have any idea what will happen next. They seem reluctant outwardly. However, the minds of both of them are heavily engrossed in the swings of anxiety and uncertainty. But neither of them said a word.
The writer is a Sub Editor for The Daily Messenger 
