> "He kissed me like he'd done it before—exactly like that, with eyes already mourning something."
(Word count: ~1250+)
---
It was raining when I met him.
But not the kind of rain that washes.
It was the kind of rain that remembers.
Thin, cold sheets whispering down from an indifferent sky.
Like someone above had been rehearsing this moment a thousand times, just waiting for me to forget the script.
---
I don't remember walking to the café.
I remember the bell above the door ringing in E minor.
I remember the coat I wore—it wasn't mine.
And I remember him.
Sitting at the far table, by the fogged-up window, with a cup of untouched coffee and the saddest eyes I'd ever seen.
Like he'd been waiting.
Like he already knew me.
---
> "You're late," he said.
Not accusatory.
Not surprised.
Just… as if the line had been written.
I froze.
> "Do I know you?" I asked.
He smiled with something between apology and nostalgia.
> "Not yet."
---
There are moments in life that feel like entries, not experiences.
This was one of them.
---
The table between us stayed untouched.
He didn't ask for my name.
He spoke like we were mid-conversation.
Like I'd missed the first act.
> "You still hum when you're nervous," he said softly, tracing the rim of his cup.
I stopped.
> "How do you know that?"
He tilted his head.
> "I've heard the songs you haven't written yet."
---
I should've left.
I should've called someone. Anyone.
But something in me… stayed.
Something warm.
Or broken.
Or curious.
I'm not sure anymore.
---
> "You don't remember me, do you?"
> "I've never seen you before."
> "Not in this version."
---
I couldn't tell if he was delusional or profound.
He reached into his coat.
Pulled out a folded piece of sheet music.
My handwriting.
A melody I hadn't finished.
A lyric I'd been trying to forget:
> "I never asked for the stage.
I just wanted the silence after."
> "Where did you get this?"
> "You gave it to me. Last time."
> "Last what?"
He looked up, and something inside me ached.
> "Last rewrite."
---
That night, I found a note on my mirror.
It wasn't there earlier.
Same handwriting as the sheet music.
Still mine.
But older.
> Don't fall for him again.
You don't survive it the same way twice.
---
I ripped it down.
But the words burned behind my eyes all night.
---
We kept meeting.
Or maybe I kept returning.
He never told me his name.
But every time, he'd say something I hadn't told anyone.
Something small. Intimate. Slightly wrong.
Like a memory retold by someone watching from behind the curtain.
---
> "You sleep with your back to the window."
"You used to bite your lip during that chorus—before they told you it wasn't pretty."
"You cried before your first kiss. You told me it felt too scripted."
"You used to hum that song, before it was released. In the green room. With me."
---
I wanted to believe him.
Because some part of me already did.
---
One night, he kissed me.
Not abruptly. Not like strangers.
But like memory catching up.
His hand rested behind my neck.
His eyes closed before mine did.
And when our lips met, I swear I heard the sound of paper tearing.
A script ripped mid-performance.
And I tasted tears.
Mine?
His?
Someone else's?
---
Later that night, I found a voice memo on my phone.
No sender. No timestamp.
Just static.
Then my voice.
> "I think I wrote him into being.
I think I created someone to break me—because that felt more honest than being loved."
---
The next time I saw him, I asked:
> "Are you real?"
He didn't flinch.
> "I'm what you needed when the spotlight felt too cold."
> "That's not an answer."
He touched my cheek.
> "Neither was the question."
---
We danced that night.
No music.
Just the rhythm of everything left unsaid.
And when I laid my head against his chest, I heard something—beneath his heartbeat:
a metronome.
Click. Click. Click.
Inhuman.
Perfect.
> "What are you?" I whispered.
> "Your favorite lie," he replied.
---
I began losing time.
Hours missing.
Lyrics rewritten in my notebooks.
Love notes in handwriting I didn't remember writing.
> "You said you'd never let me go this time."
"You promised to keep me alive."
---
One night, I woke to find him standing at my mirror.
His reflection was smiling.
He wasn't.
> "Why are you crying?" I asked.
He didn't turn.
> "Because you only love me when I'm not real."
> "That's not true."
He finally turned to face me.
Eyes full of storm.
> "Then prove it. Let me stay when you wake up."
---
I blinked.
And he was gone.
---
I searched everywhere.
Nothing.
His number no longer existed.
The café never existed.
The coat I thought he left behind was just… fabric. No scent. No memory in the lining.
---
I checked my phone again.
A new note.
Untitled.
Just four words.
> The scene ends here.
---
But the ache didn't.
I still hum when it rains.
I still write songs about a boy who never had a name.
I still dream of a kiss that tastes like static.
And I still wonder if he was a memory I fabricated…
Or one the world deleted.
---
But some nights, when the lights go out just right,
when the world goes quiet like an empty theatre—
I feel his hand in mine.
And a whisper behind my ear:
> "You're not more than free…
you're less than remembered."