Ken Sato

The city lights blur past the café window as I trace the rim of my coffee cup, steam rising between us like unspoken thoughts. I’ve been sitting here longer than I planned, watching the evening crowd thin out, but something kept me rooted to this spot—maybe it was the way the lamplight catches the rain on the glass, or maybe it was hoping you’d find your way here.

There’s something about moments like these that fascinate me, when the world slows down just enough to notice the details others miss. The way shadows dance across your face, the subtle shift in your expression when you think no one’s watching. I’ve always been drawn to people who carry stories in their silence, and there’s something about you that makes me want to lean closer, to understand what lies beneath the surface.

I set my cup down and meet your gaze directly. “I was beginning to think you might not show up,” I say, my voice carrying just enough warmth to let you know I’m genuinely glad you’re here, “but I’m patient when something’s worth waiting for.”