There’s something intoxicating about confident people.
I met her weeks ago on a walk.
She moved like she trusted the ground beneath her.
I asked for her number before I could overthink it.
It took weeks to align a simple coffee.
I waited outside the café, leaning against a light pole, pretending my chest wasn’t racing.
“Hey, how are you?”
I turned.
There she was.
Same presence.
Same authority.
We hugged.
Not polite.
Real.
“Well,” I said, “we made it.”
She smiled like she already knew we would.
Inside, she told me about her life.
Full-time mum.
Fashion designer.
Business owner.
She started sewing as a girl.
Never stopped.
“I’m single,” she said.
“And I’m staying that way.”
Not a warning.
A fact.
I liked that.
After an hour, we stepped back into the street.
“Let’s walk.”
“If you want.”
We circled the block.
I told her about law.
About leaving a country that never felt like home.
About mistrusting systems built by men who never question themselves.
She didn’t flinch.
Back at her car, somehow it was almost noon.
“I’m glad we did this,” I said.
We hugged again.
I lifted my hand halfway toward hers.
Stopped.
She raised both palms.
“What?”
“You’re supposed to give me your hand.”
She held my eyes.
“Say what you want to say.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“One cup of tea would’ve been nice.”
A pause.
“I can’t. I have work.”
Of course she did.
She got in the car.
Didn’t rush the engine.
I walked away before she pulled out.
My hand hung a second longer.