Iris started noticing the change in small things.
It wasn't immediate. It wasn't a revelation.
It was more like a buildup of details that, on their own, didn't mean anything.
The rhythm of her walk.
The way she left her phone face down.
The fact that, without realizing it, she chose routes that passed near the café.
It wasn't a conscious decision.
That was what bothered her the most.
She told herself she was exaggerating. That it made no sense to plan her day around someone she barely knew. And yet, when she realized she had reached the usual corner, she stopped.
She looked at the place from the outside.
She didn't go in.
She stood there for a few seconds, with that uncomfortable feeling of watching something that seemed to be watching her back.
Then she kept walking.
Ethan, on the other hand, stopped pretending he wasn't thinking about it.
He didn't talk about it with anyone. He didn't write it down. He didn't analyze it out loud. He simply accepted that his mind kept returning to the same point, over and over, and stopped fighting it.
It wasn't obsession.
That's what he told himself.
It was curiosity.
Discomfort.
Recognition.
Words that sounded more manageable.
That afternoon, he opened the file he had closed without saving the night before. This time, he didn't write right away. He read what little was still on the screen. Loose sentences. Incomplete ideas. Nothing concrete.
Still, he knew exactly where they came from.
He closed the file again.
He wasn't ready for that.
They ran into each other two days later.
It wasn't planned.
Or at least, not in a way either of them was willing to admit.
Iris was sitting on a bench outside a small bookstore she barely visited. She had an open book on her lap, but she wasn't reading. She turned the pages without paying attention, as if the gesture mattered more than the content.
She saw him out of the corner of her eye before lifting her gaze.
Ethan was walking slowly, hands in his pockets, looking at the shop windows like someone who wasn't really looking for anything.
For a second, she thought about closing the book. About standing up. About leaving.
She didn't.
He saw her almost at the same time.
He stopped.
He didn't smile.
He didn't fake surprise.
He just tilted his head slightly, as if recognizing something that was already there.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," Iris replied.
They looked at each other for a few seconds longer than necessary.
"I didn't know you liked bookstores," he commented.
"I don't," she said. "I like places where no one expects you to talk."
That seemed to amuse him.
"That makes sense."
He sat down beside her without asking, leaving a careful space between them. Iris noticed it. She appreciated it more than she wanted to admit.
"What are you reading?" he asked.
She looked at the book, as if seeing it for the first time.
"I'm not sure," she replied. "I haven't reached that part yet."
Ethan nodded.
"That happens sometimes."
They fell silent.
It wasn't uncomfortable.
It wasn't comfortable either.
It was a pause filled with things neither of them dared to say.
"I've been thinking about what you said," Iris said suddenly.
"What part?"
"That it bothered you not knowing."
He didn't react right away.
"And?" he asked.
"I didn't like it," she admitted. "But it wasn't a lie either."
Ethan looked at her carefully.
"I don't usually say things like that."
"I know."
"How?"
She shrugged.
"You can tell."
That made him smile. Not openly. More like someone acknowledging a point well made.
"You don't like people seeing you too clearly," he said.
"No."
"But you see."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Iris closed the book carefully.
"Because watching gives me time," she replied. "Time to decide what to show."
Ethan nodded slowly.
"That shows too."
The comment made her more uncomfortable than she expected.
"You shouldn't analyze me so much," she said.
"I don't do it on purpose," he replied. "It just happens."
She glanced at him.
"That doesn't make it better."
"I know."
"This is getting weird," Iris said.
"Yes," Ethan agreed. "It is."
"And you're still here."
"You are too."
She didn't deny it.
They talked a little more. About simple things. About books they never finished. About places they avoided. About habits they couldn't explain.
They didn't ask about the past.
They didn't talk about the future.
But without realizing it, they started sharing silences as if they were part of the conversation.
"I'm not good with people," Iris said at one point.
"It doesn't seem like it," Ethan replied.
"That's because pretending doesn't require closeness."
He looked at her more seriously.
"That gets tiring."
"Yes," she said. "But it works."
Ethan didn't respond.
When they stood up, Iris spoke first.
"I don't know what we're doing," she said.
"Neither do I."
"And that should be a sign."
"Probably."
They stood there, looking at each other.
"I'm not going to promise anything," she said.
"I wasn't going to ask."
"Good."
"Good."
Iris took a step back.
"See you," she said.
"Yeah."
They didn't agree on when.
They didn't need to.
That night, Iris looked again at the book she had brought with her. She read the same paragraph three times without understanding it. Finally, she closed it and set it aside.
She thought about the way Ethan listened. About how he didn't rush to fill silences. About how easy it felt to say things she usually kept to herself.
That wasn't safe.
And still, she didn't feel like backing away.
Ethan, meanwhile, opened the file again.
This time, he wrote.
Not much.
Not too much.
Just enough to admit something he wasn't ready to say out loud yet.
When he finished, he saved the document.
For the first time.
He stared at the screen for a few more seconds and thought:
*This has already taken a step.*
He didn't know what kind.
But he felt it.
And even though part of him knew he should stop—
Because some things don't become familiar out of nowhere.
They become familiar because they were always there.
Waiting.