dear god what a fucking mess this is ignore any plot holes or just confusing things i half edited this 😍
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THE CAFE was a small, cozy place tucked away on a quiet street, far enough from the hustle of the city that it felt like a world of its own. Mallory had discovered it a few months ago, drawn in by the scent of freshly brewed coffee that wafted from the door, and now, it was as much a part of her routine as breathing. It wasn't the kind of place that stood out, but to her, it was perfect. The low hum of conversations and the soft rustling of pages from the bookshelves created a sort of warmth that made her feel at home.
She sat at her usual spot by the window, the golden light of the late afternoon casting soft shadows on her sketchbook. Her pencil moved slowly across the page, tracing delicate patterns, but today, the lines didn't feel as fluid as usual. Mallory's mind kept drifting—her thoughts felt like they were just out of reach, pulled away by the soft murmur of the café and the steady ticking of the clock.
She was a painter, but recently, her work felt uninspired. It had always been her dream to create grand, vibrant pieces that told stories, yet now, her designs lacked the magic she once poured into them.
Her fingers paused mid-air, hovering above her page, as her gaze flitted around the café. There was something here, something intangible, that made her heart beat just a little faster. Maybe it was the lighting, the clinking of coffee cups, or the way the plants hung from the ceiling in their macramé pots.
Whatever it was, it made her feel like the world was full of possibilities.
But today, even the familiarity of the café couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. Maybe it was love, maybe it was adventure, but Mallory wasn't sure. She just knew that the quiet, everyday magic of this place couldn't hide the fact that her own life had grown a little too predictable.
As she turned the page of her sketchbook, a sound she hadn't expected interrupted her thoughts—a soft strum of a guitar. It was faint at first, blending into the background noise, but then the sound grew, filling the space with an undeniable warmth.
Mallory's pencil stilled, her breath catching in her chest as her gaze snapped to the small stage at the back of the café.
He was standing there, bathed in the dim light, his fingers dancing over the strings of the guitar. She hadn't seen him before, but there was something about him—something familiar, something magnetic. His voice was soft but filled with an aching kind of emotion that tugged at something deep inside of her.
She watched, transfixed, as he sang.
It was as if the café had quieted just for him, and in that moment, Mallory felt an undeniable connection. His music stirred something in her—something she couldn't quite name—but it was the same feeling she had when standing in front of a blank wall, ready to pour her soul into a mural.
