A Chance Encounter

"This is getting ridiculous!" I muttered under my breath, forcing my eyes back to the laptop screen.

A woman's voice, sharp and insistent, pierced the cafe's chatter. "I ordered an Americano, not an Espresso!"

Sparkle Cafe, a new addition to the market, was supposed to be my writing haven. I'd specifically chosen a corner seat, hoping to shield myself from distractions and finally coax words back onto the page. Three years. Three years of staring at a blank screen, the well of creativity seemingly dry. Back in the day, I churned out bite-sized stories daily, shared freely on social media. Now, even a single coherent thought felt elusive.

I sipped my espresso, hoping the caffeine kick would jolt my rusty brain awake. It didn't. Another sip, a couple of tentative keystrokes, then the woman's voice shattered my concentration once more.

"But madam," the manager began, his voice strained with polite exasperation, "we don't have Americano on the menu. It's just a diluted Espresso with hot water."

I couldn't take it anymore. A quick scan of the room confirmed no one else seemed particularly bothered. Impulse got the better of me. I rose and edged towards the fuming woman. Sharp in a tailored office suit, she stood rigidly by the counter, purse clutched in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, her back to me as she continued her tirade.

"Ma'am," I ventured, "technically, Americano is just..." My voice trailed off. Silence settled over the cafe, punctuated only by the hiss of the espresso machine.

"Yes, ma'am," the manager chimed in gratefully. "Exactly. That's what I was trying to explain. What you have in your hand is an Americano."

A sheepish "Oh" escaped the woman's lips. She turned slowly, and our eyes met. A jolt of recognition shot through me. Those were the same eyes I'd studiously avoided during graduation – familiar eyes now fixed on me. "Sia?"

"Rihan?" Her lips curved into a hesitant smile, momentarily rewinding me to those college days.

Before I could lose myself in the memory, the manager, his patience wearing thin, spoke up. "Ma'am, perhaps you could step away from the counter?"

Sia, barely acknowledging him, took a step towards me. "Good to see you."

"Likewise." My voice sounded rusty, disused.

"Happy you remember me!" A hint of excitement edged her voice.

 Panic gnawed at me. People who knew me well understood my crippling shyness around women. Not a phobia, but a product of upbringing and a single-gendered educational environment. This inexperience, however, wasn't an excuse for the blunder that tumbled out of my mouth. "You...thought Americano and Espresso were different drinks?"

The amusement dancing in her eyes vanished. I'd blown it, ruined the moment. "No, I..." I stammered, words failing me. After all these years, a chance meeting, and I'd managed to make a fool of myself.

To my surprise, Sia burst out laughing, the tension dissipating. "Why are you flustered?"

Flustered? Was that the word? Heat crept up my neck, and instinctively, I took a step back. "Sorry," I mumbled.

"Sorry for what?"

My mind was a blank slate, mirroring the story I was failing to write. As if on cue, the manager's voice, laced with thinly veiled annoyance, cut through the silence. "Please vacate the counter, sir."

I nodded awkwardly towards Sia. "Do you, uh, you know, maybe we could...both have a coffee? At my table, I mean? Only if you want, no pressure, just thinking coffee, at the table..." My words tumbled out in a desperate rush.

A grin split her face. "Chill, Rihan. I was about to suggest the same thing."

Surprise widened my eyes.

Behind her, the manager slammed his hand on the counter, a clear sign of his dwindling patience. We both made a beeline for my table. As Sia settled in, my gaze snagged on the details I'd missed earlier – the way the sunlight filtering through the window caught the glint of her triangular earrings, the cascade of jet-black hair as she leaned forward to sip her coffee. Then, she pulled her hair back, revealing almond-shaped eyes lined with kohl. I quickly averted my gaze, diving into a charade of typing nonsense into my laptop screen.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything important," she said apologetically.

I flipped down the laptop screen with a sigh, hoping a swig of coffee would loosen the dam holding my words hostage. "Not at all," I mumbled, the words scraping against my throat.

"Good that you remember me," Sia said, a hint of amusement in her voice.

How could I forget? Graduation year, the library bustling with activity. Tucked away in a corner, oblivious to the chatter, I was lost in a novel. Fatigue finally forced me to close the book, and my gaze drifted, taking in the room's inhabitants. Then, I saw her. For long, mesmerizing moments, I watched her movements, the first time a face had ever held such captivating power compared to the stories on the page.

A clinking sound snapped me back to the present. Sia's empty cup rested on the table.

"I don't forget people easily either," I replied, the words hollow.

Her playful smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of annoyance. "You didn't even acknowledge my birthday wish. That was pretty rude, you know."

"What?" Confusion creased my brow.

She reached into her purse, extracting her phone. A flurry of taps, and she held it out to me, screen displaying a familiar message: "Happy Birthday, writer!"

Surprise surged through me. "It was you?"

"Obviously," she teased, pointing to her username displayed beneath the message. "But I'm glad I did it."

I frowned. "Glad?"

Sia gestured between my laptop and me. "Three years. No stories, no updates, nothing. I thought you'd given up."

I wanted to confess, to tell her I had. But silence held me captive.

"But seeing you still working on something," she continued, her voice softening, "it made me happy. You haven't changed a bit since college."

She gathered her things, ready to leave. "I gotta go, bye."

The untold truth weighed heavily on me – how her single word had jolted me awake. As she walked away, I pressed my face against the cool glass, watching her disappear into the crowd. A silent plea formed in my mind: a wish for another chance encounter, another opportunity to connect.