A Cup of December

The bell above the café door chimed with that familiar, old-fashioned ring.

Mira looked up from her notebook just as the wind swept a flurry of snow in behind the newcomer. He shook off his coat, stamping his boots on the mat, and stepped forward.

He had a worn satchel, dark eyes, and a hesitant smile that made her blink twice. Not because she knew him—but because something about him felt… significant.

He approached the counter. “One Americano, please. No sugar.”

Mira smirked to herself. Black coffee. Of course.

The barista took his order. While the espresso brewed, the man turned and scanned the room. Most of the tables were full—students, readers, couples leaning close. Only the seat across from Mira was open.

Their eyes met. For a moment, neither spoke.

Then he gestured toward the chair. “May I?”

Mira shrugged, tucking her pen behind her ear. “Sure. Just don’t spill anything on my manuscript.”

He smiled and sat, setting his coffee down with care. “You’re a writer?”

“Trying to be.”

He took a sip. “Anyone ever tell you that’s brave?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Only people who’ve never tried it.”

He chuckled. “Fair enough.”

A pause. Snow drifted outside the window, softening the edges of the December morning.

“I’m Leo,” he said finally.

“Mira.”

They shook hands across the table, hers ink-smudged and his callused. A pianist’s hands, maybe. Or a carpenter’s.

“You from around here?” she asked.

“Just visiting,” he said. “I used to live here a long time ago.”

“Ah. Nostalgic type.”

He smiled. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” she said. “Just risky.”

He tilted his head. “And why’s that?”

“Because people who chase the past usually get lost in it.”

Leo looked out the window. “Or maybe they’re just looking for one last piece of it.”

Mira watched him for a moment. His gaze wasn’t just fixed on the street—it was reaching through time.

“Who did you leave behind?” she asked quietly.

He blinked. “No one. Not really. Just… a version of myself.”

“That’s heavy for a Monday morning,” she teased.

“I thought Mondays were for honesty,” he said.

She smiled. “Not in my world. Mondays are for rewriting lies until they sound beautiful.”

“You’re a poet then.”

“No. Just heartbroken with a good vocabulary.”

He nodded slowly. “We’re a club then.”

They sipped their coffees in silence. The café’s soft jazz soundtrack barely covered the sound of pens scratching, pages turning.

“What are you writing?” he asked eventually.

“A short story,” she said. “About a girl who meets someone she’s supposed to forget.”

Leo leaned forward. “And does she?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He smiled. “You’re stalling.”

“Maybe.”

A moment passed.

“You want to hear something strange?” he asked.

“Always.”

“I almost didn’t come in.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I was afraid.”

“Of bad coffee?”

He laughed. “No. Of meeting someone like you.”

Her breath caught—just a moment—but she recovered.

“And what am I like?”

“Familiar,” he said. “In a way that makes me want to remember something I haven’t lived yet.”

She swallowed hard. “That’s dangerously close to a line.”

“It’s not,” he said. “But I won’t say more if you’d rather pretend this is just coffee.”

Mira looked down at her notebook. The story suddenly felt like a mirror.

“Do you believe in fate?” she asked softly.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I believe in timing.”

“And this?” She gestured between them. “What is this?”

“Something rare,” he said. “Maybe only meant for this moment.”

She leaned back. “You’re poetic for a man who orders black coffee.”

“I only speak like this when the words matter.”

Snow began to fall harder outside. The world blurred behind frost-kissed glass.

“Would you stay if I asked you to?” she asked.

He met her gaze. “Only if you meant it.”

She hesitated.

“I’m tired of things that don’t last,” she said.

“So am I,” he replied.

Another silence. Not awkward, just suspended—like breath.

“I think I’d like to write you into my story,” she said.

He grinned. “Then make me unforgettable.”

“You’re already halfway there.”

They smiled at each other, a warmth blooming despite the snow outside.

The barista called out: “Closing in twenty minutes!”

Mira glanced at the clock. Time had vanished.

Leo stood slowly. “I should go.”

“Of course,” she said, too quickly.

He slid a napkin across the table. On it: a phone number, and beneath it, one line of script.

“If the story ends well, call me.”

Then he turned, slipping his satchel over his shoulder, and walked out into the snow.

Mira sat in silence. Her coffee had gone cold. She picked up her pen, staring at the last line she’d written.

Then, with a deep breath, she began again.