Chapter One
It started with stretching.
Three weeks at home, and I only saw you in the last three days. Hardly anyone in that gym stretched, me included. You did. So I thought, okay, this one knows what she's doing.
Then I noticed your form, and everything was on point. Then we kept making eye contact while I was squatting, and I was silently begging you not to look, because the funny faces and the grunting were about to begin.
Then I thought, whatever, it's my last day here. Little did I know I'd end up saying hi.
After the gym, I did. We got talking, and then you asked for my Instagram. (Yes, you asked π) I followed, pinged you, and the rest is in this book.

Not just time. The right moment.
You taught me a Greek word on day one. (Yes, I googled it.) Chronos is time passing. Kairos is the right moment arriving.
You changed your gym timing. I switched to evenings. You said "see you on Monday," and I said I was leaving. Little choices, and we both made a few.
I blamed kairos once. It's forgiven now.
Our brains hold on to unfinished things.
That same day, I asked you out. You had work, so the answer was: next time. I almost got rejected π
So I did the only logical thing. I planned to come back as soon as possible.
Psychologists call it the Zeigarnik effect. It's why I keep thinking about one coffee we never had.
Meanwhile, you kept sending me coffee. Black, of course.


She likes every flower. But wildflowers most.
Because they grow effortlessly, untamed. Then one day she picked some off the roadside and sent them to me.

My first flowers. Hand-picked. And a few more from her gallery:
(the lilies didn't grow. Next chapter, there'll be lilies π€«)
A picture for a picture.
You offered a trade. I'd never played this game. Then you went straight for the face. Strongest card first. Not fair.

It counted. Everything counted.
A field guide to her moods.
Compiled by an amateur anthropologist, for a real one.



Things I noticed, that you didn't know I noticed.
- π§ββοΈThe stretching. Where the whole story began.
- π§¦Your socks. Before we'd even said hi, I spotted them and thought, cool, we have the same ones. Clearly a sign.
- π―How locked in you are. People call it rude. I call it focus.
- πββοΈYour hair. Open or tied back. Chef's kiss.
A small glossary of us.
Looks start the story.
Qualities make you stay.
I don't want the idea of you. I want to know the real you: the good days, the tornado days, all of it. One coffee at a time.
