A Chance Encounter at Café Bojan
L adjusted her scarf against the brisk Stockholm wind, her red-dyed hair cascading over her shoulders. She liked blending into the quiet energy of Stockholm University, even though she wasn’t a student anymore. Café Bojan had become her refuge—a place where she could enjoy a latte while scribbling notes for her latest story idea, though she rarely admitted she was writing.
Inside, the café was warm, with the scent of fresh cardamom buns and espresso. She spotted an empty table near the window. As she settled in, she opened her laptop, hesitating for a moment before typing the first words of a new story.
“Looks like a writer at work,” a voice interrupted her thoughts. She glanced up, startled, to find a man standing with his own coffee cup. He had the kind of confidence that matched his tailored coat and the subtle smirk on his lips.
“Not really,” she said, immediately defensive.
“You’re too modest,” he replied. “Mind if I join? There’s nowhere else to sit.”
L hesitated but nodded. The café was indeed filling up.
“So,” he continued, sitting across from her, “what’s your story about?”
“It’s nothing serious,” she said, closing the laptop slightly. “I’m not good at it anyway.”
“I don’t believe that,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You have the face of someone with a thousand stories. The kind of stories that people beg to hear, even if they don’t admit it.”
L laughed nervously, but there was a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. “You’re just saying that.”
“Not at all,” he said, his gaze steady. “Let me guess. It’s something unconventional, maybe even... daring?”
Her cheeks warmed, but she quickly covered it with a sip of her coffee. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you strike me as someone who doesn’t follow the rules. Someone who wants to write what others don’t dare to,” he said, his voice low. “You know, the kind of stories that keep people awake at night—not just thinking, but feeling.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Maybe you’re projecting,” she said, deflecting with a smirk of her own.
“Maybe,” he admitted, leaning back. “But if I’m wrong, prove it. Let me read something you’ve written.”
L hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of her laptop. “And if you’re right?”
“Then,” he said, holding her gaze, “you’ll have to tell me what inspires you.”