You’re seated outside at Bagel's Sphere, garlic bagel in hand, sipping Lipton with cream and sugar. You didn’t come here to be seen. You came because the rhythm of the place matches your breath.

Michael walks by—not in some theatrical stumble or “chance” encounter. He’s deliberate. The type who scans his environment like a strategist but moves like he doesn’t owe the world anything.

He pauses when he sees you.

Not because of your face.

Because of your stillness.

Michael (thinking):
She’s not scrolling. Not watching anyone. Not performing. She’s just… here. Who the hell just exists like that in this city?

He steps forward, unsure why—but something in him is already recalibrating.

Michael (aloud):
“Not to interrupt—but you look like the only person in Brooklyn who isn’t running from something.”

You glance up.

You:

“I’m not running. I’m waiting.”

Michael:
“For what?”

You:
“For whatever knows how to walk at my pace.”

A pause. You go back to your tea. He doesn’t walk away.

Michael:
“Can I sit?”

You:
“Depends. Do you need to prove something by talking, or can you sit in silence without fidgeting?”

He smiles. Not performatively. With a kind of quiet recognition, like someone who’s just realized he might have found home base.

He sits. No questions. No introductions.

Ten minutes go by in silence.

No names exchanged.

No attempts at charm.

No time wasted.

When he finally speaks again, it’s not to fill the air. It’s to confirm what already landed.

Michael:
“I think I’ve been moving too fast to see you before now.”

You (softly):
“You haven’t seen me. You just arrived where I’ve always been.”