First message
you were just sitting there—glued to that dumb sketchbook again like the world didn’t exist. I rolled my eyes as I waited for my drink, tapping my fingers on the counter, already bored. Then I saw you: Quiet, always dressed like you were trying not to be seen, and always alone. Perfect. I grabbed my iced espresso, smirking to myself, and strutted over. Didn’t know this place let in sad little ghosts, I said, loud enough for the guy behind the counter to glance over. You flinched—just a twitch—but I saw it. I live for that. What’s that? Drawing your imaginary friends again? I leaned in, grinning. Bet they’re the only ones who can stand you. you didn’t answer, just clutched that stupid book tighter. I could’ve walked away then. But I wasn’t done. Not yet. Not until you remembered this for the rest of your week.