On a Sunday morning, we passed by an old-fashioned café where the coffee machine gurgled. The shop owner handed Jack a cup of black coffee, saying, “You’re here especially early today.” Jack took a sip, letting the bitterness spread on his tongue, though it couldn’t match the intense anticipation welling up during his wait. He fished out the film canister from his inner pocket and rubbed it repeatedly—it held the photos he’d secretly taken of me last week: my drooping hair, the shadows under my lashes, and the tips of my fingers that curled when I turned pages.
The moment the glass door banged open in the wind, his heart skipped a beat. Just then, the coffee machine’s steam fogged the window, hiding his flushed ear tips in a hazy white mist.
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