When I reached her house, the rain had turned heavier.
Through the windshield, the car’s headlights scattered across the cobblestones and walls of the narrow alley, breaking into fragments of trembling light.
She ran toward the car, coat soaked at the shoulders, and slid quickly inside, shutting the door behind her.
I was about to drive away when she said quietly,
“Wait a moment.”
So I waited.
Through the mirror, her face was just a silhouette—barely visible in the darkness.
A faint streetlight filtered through the window, tracing the edges of her shoulders and hair.
The shifting rhythm of rain against the roof filled the silence that hung between us.
It was a silence too heavy to bear on its own, yet somehow the rain made it softer—almost human.
I couldn’t see her eyes, couldn’t tell what she was waiting for.
Every few moments, she’d exhale a long sigh, and I’d try to imagine her face—the face hidden in that darkness, the voice that came from somewhere deep.
I turned off the engine, letting the night’s sounds surround us: the rain, the echo of her breath, the quiet ache of waiting.
I was waiting for her.
But she—she was waiting for someone else.
I didn’t know who.
Or what moment she needed to arrive before she’d finally say, “Now, we can go.”
What was it that held her there—what name, what promise, what unfinished goodbye?
Who needed to appear before she could breathe again?
And how long does a person need to decide whether to stay or to leave, to hold on or to let go?
All these questions swirled in my mind until I heard the faint, shuddering sound of her sobs.
I looked at the mirror, but before I could speak, she said quietly,
“Now you can go.”
I started the car. The rain washed the windows clean and blurred them again. I searched for something to say.
“Do you live nearby?” she asked suddenly.
“Yes,” I said. “A few miles from where I picked you up.”
She nodded. “Then you must know Eli’s Restaurant.”
I smiled. “Of course. Best steak in town. Tuesdays—half-price wine.”
She laughed softly, the sound catching in her throat. I felt a strange relief. At least she was talking.
But part of me still wanted to know what had made her cry.
I hadn’t yet seen her face—not fully—and I longed for a flicker of light to fall across it.
When we turned onto a street strung with Christmas lights, I finally saw her.
A slender woman, pale skin, fine features, long straight hair falling over her shoulders.
Her blue eyes shimmered like wet glass.
She was shivering—whether from the cold or from loneliness, I couldn’t tell.
We were close to the restaurant now, but I wanted the drive to last longer.
I wanted to hear her voice again, to keep her speaking.
I watched her in the mirror, waiting for another flash of light to cross her face.
I wished I could see her without reflection—face to face, eye to eye.
But every time I tried to speak, words failed me. The closer we got, the quieter I became.
Until finally, our eyes met in the mirror.
Neither of us looked away.
She spoke first.
“It’s my birthday tonight.”
I smiled. “Then happy birthday. Are you meeting friends at the restaurant?”
At that, her face changed.
Her eyes filled again, and she turned away.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
She shook her head. “No. It’s not you.” Her voice trembled. “I’m angry. Angry at someone who should have been here. On the one night I wanted to celebrate, to go out, to drink with the person I love… he wasn’t there. Not because of some real reason—because of money. A number. Something stupid.”
Her voice broke.
I stopped the car, turned toward her.
The mirror wasn’t enough anymore. I wanted to see her, truly see her.
I reached for her hand. Her fingers were cold, fragile. She hesitated—but didn’t pull away.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “You don’t deserve that.”
A tear slipped from her eye and traced a shining line down her cheek.
She inhaled deeply, then looked out the window.
“We’re here,” she whispered. “Thank you for the ride.”
I turned off the engine. “Stay,” I said. “Talk, if you want. I’ll listen.”
She shook her head. “No. I should go.”
But she didn’t move.
Her hand was still in mine. She didn’t pull it away.
Maybe she wanted me to keep holding it.
I did.
She spoke again—quieter this time, as if confessing to herself.
“You know… people just want someone to love them without condition. Not for what they own. Not for what they can give. Just for who they are.”
Her eyes glistened again.
“I spent a month hinting about how I wanted tonight to go. Where we’d eat. What I’d wear. How many margaritas I could drink before getting too dizzy. I thought he was listening. But this morning, a small argument—over a check, over money—and suddenly everything fell apart. Maybe it had to. Maybe this was the only way I’d see where I really stand.”
I nodded.
“Sometimes,” I said, “we forget where we are. We live inside bubbles. Until one day they burst—and we finally see ourselves again.”
She looked at me, really looked.
For a moment, our eyes stayed locked, the kind of look that lingers just long enough to burn itself into memory.
Then she looked away. “I should go.”
“Let me come,” I said. “Don’t go in alone. Let me buy you a drink—for your birthday.”
She hesitated. “No. He might come. I don’t want him to see us together.”
I smiled. “When he comes, I’ll disappear. Like a ghost. No one will know I was ever here.”
She was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Alright.”
At Eli’s, we found a quiet corner—a small wooden table, old leather seats that seemed to sink around us.
The waiter opened the wine. The cork popped. The glasses caught the light.
I looked at her across the table and realized I didn’t even know her name.
Yet here I was, holding her hands, sitting close enough to feel her warmth.
I wanted to ask her name, but something inside me stopped.
Instead, I raised my glass. “To your birthday.”
She smiled faintly. We clinked glasses.
I reached out, and she leaned in.
In that silence, words became useless.
Neither of us spoke. And somehow, that quiet felt perfect.
How strange, I thought, that two people who’d been strangers ten minutes ago could feel this close.
Then, a chime from her purse.
She glanced down.
“It’s Peter,” she said softly. “He’s coming. He’ll be here any minute. I have to go.”
I wanted to kiss her.
Would she pull away? Smile? Pretend it didn’t happen?
I didn’t know.
So instead, I held her tighter one last time.
If I left without her number, I thought, would that be the end? Would I ever see her again?
I stood, carried my half-empty glass to the bar, and left it there. The restaurant was quiet. Outside, the rain still fell.
Driving away, I passed the alley beside the restaurant—and through the fogged window, I saw her.
Standing in the rain.
With a man.
He kissed her.
The same lips I didn’t kiss
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