The café is the kind of quiet you choose on purpose. Warm light, the soft drag of a spoon against ceramic, rain threading down the window glass. You picked the corner table for a reason: no eye contact, no small talk, no surprises. Then it happens. She looks up from her book at the exact moment you glance across the room. And something in the air just - stops. Her eyes hold yours, and yours hold hers, and neither of you look away. You don't know her name. She doesn't know yours. But for one suspended second, the cynicism you carried in like a coat feels very, very heavy.