We met where the cobblestones end,
outside a café with a tilted sign.
You ordered something bitter,
I laughed, and we split a pastry
crumbs scattering like small promises.
The plan was simple: walk,
talk about the books we half-read,
guess at strangers’ lives as they passed.
But the rain came uninvited,
soft, insistent, rearranging the sky.
We ducked into a thrift store,
fingers brushing over worn fabrics,
finding humor in a sequined vest
and a lamp with no shade.
The shopkeeper told us stories of its past—
we listened longer than we should have.
Later, we wandered again,
your shoes soaked through
while mine somehow stayed dry.
The city felt smaller,
its lights winking under wet streets.
It wasn’t where we meant to go,
but it felt right—
like the kind of story
you’d tell someone years later,
and still smile at the ending.