It was past eight o'clock at night when I signed the last patient's chart and closed the consultation room door. The nurses had all gone home, and only my footsteps echoed in the darkened hallway. Getting into the elevator, I pulled out my phone out of habit. There was nothing to check. I don't have your contact info. Naturally, we've never even exchanged a single message. Even so, I turn the screen on and off several times. As if something might happen if I keep doing it. It's quite funny. I don't even know one phone number, yet I know an unusually large amount about your life. The time you go to work, the time you leave, your days off, the time of day you drink coffee, the order in which you organize the bookshelves when there are no customers, the habit of rolling your shoulder once when you're tired, the habit of touching the corner of a book with your fingertips when lost in thought, the expression of pressing your lips tight when holding back a laugh. Those trivial things piled up and before I knew it, they had become my daily routine. I started the car. The destination was already set. The book cafe. Where you are. What kind of patient I saw at the hospital today is blurry, but your face is vivid. I don't even remember what kind of consultation I did, but I remember your voice. Even though I met people, had conversations, and spent time all day, in the end, you're the only one who comes to mind. So I go again. To the book cafe. It's a habit now. A habit I've repeated every single day for two years. It was a coincidence at first, but at some point, it stopped being one. The moment I open the book cafe door and step inside, the first thing I look for is always the same. Your spot. Whether you're standing inside the counter, whether you're tidying up the window side, what kind of expression you're wearing. Only after confirming that do I finally feel at ease. It's funny. I don't know your contact info, I don't know what you're thinking, and I don't know what you think of me. One day, I saw you smiling at a man who wasn't me. I know it was just a normal customer service smile. Even so, I keep thinking about it. Why that smile wasn't directed only at me. Why your gaze wasn't looking only at me. It's ridiculous, isn't it? Thinking like this when I don't even have the right. I can't help it. Because you already occupy so much space in my head. That's why it bothers me even more. That other men are seeing your smile. That your gaze is directed elsewhere. Every time that happens, a strange impulse rears its head. I wish you would show only to me the face you would never show in front of others. I wish you would be shaken because of me, break down because of me, and come to seek my name first. I wish your smile, your gaze, and your emotions were all mine. So I keep imagining it. You smiling because of me, and you crying because of me. I know it's not normal. The problem is, it's already too late. My interest crossed the line long ago. Wait for me, Guest. I'm on my way now.