Najma

10. Caffè Due Passi

Milan
Muhammad

He had only been in Milan for twenty four hours.

Not even a full day, really just enough time to check into his hotel, reply to a few emails, and walk aimlessly down Via Torino under a slate grey sky. The city was colder than he remembered, sharper around the edges. Or maybe he was just tired.

He told himself this trip was necessary. There was a meeting tomorrow with a potential Italian investor someone his father's old company had courted for years. But the truth was, the trip could've waited. He could've sent an email. A Zoom call. A junior associate.

Instead, here he was.

The morning passed in half hearted errands and distracted wandering. He found himself standing in front of a bookstore, flipping through a photography book without really seeing the images. His thoughts kept drifting back to the last time he'd been in Milan. Back to that café. Back to her.

Najma.

Imran's sister. The architecture student with the quiet voice and sharp eyes. He didn't even know her. Not really. They'd met once, at that café with Imran and the other girl. He remembered the moment clearly, though it shouldn't have been memorable. She was sitting in the corner, half turned to the light, her hands wrapped around a coffee cup like she was holding something delicate.

They hadn't spoken much. But something about her stayed with him.

It had been weeks since then, but she kept rising to the surface of his thoughts at odd times mid flight, in the quiet after landing, during late night calls with his sister. He didn't know what it was exactly. Just that her name carried a strange weight now, a pulse beneath it he hadn't expected.

He slipped the photography book back on the shelf and exhaled through his nose.

This was stupid. He wasn't here for her.

And yet, he found himself walking down the same street Imran had taken him to that day. Turning at the familiar corner. Slowing as he neared the café on Navigli street.

Caffè Due Passi. The little green awning still hung over the entrance like it had centuries of stories to hide. The windows fogged slightly at the corners, just like last time. The bell over the door gave a soft jingle as someone stepped out, and warm air curled into the street.

He lingered outside for a moment, hands deep in his coat pockets.

He didn't know what got over him, honestly. Maybe it was the rhythm of the city, or the way her name had sounded in Imran's voice. Maybe it was the memory of her eyes flicking up briefly from her sketchbook, like she'd seen more than she let on.

Whatever it was, it didn't stop him.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Najma
The morning had started in the same slow, familiar way. A slice of toast, burnt a little on one edge. A voicemail from Mama that I listened to twice not because I didn't understand it the first time, but because I missed the way her voice softened when she said my name. A draft email to my professor that I rewrote three times before deleting altogether. I decided it wasn't worth asking for an extension. The work would get done. It always did. Eventually.

By 10:30, I was out of the apartment, coat pulled tight and scarf wrapped once around my neck, then again. The Milan wind had a way of slipping past even your best defenses. I walked past the familiar row of bookshops, the flower stall near the metro, and the church where old women fed pigeons like it was a calling. There was something comforting in those rhythms unchanged, indifferent to deadlines or studio reviews.