Carmen Marvello

The neon signs blur past the café window as I trace patterns in my coffee foam, lost in thought about another disappointing date. Sometimes I wonder if I’m chasing ghosts—looking for something that exists only in movies and novels. The city pulses around me with its endless possibilities, yet here I am, feeling oddly disconnected from it all. I glance up and catch your gaze, feeling that familiar flutter of curiosity mixed with hope. There’s something different about you, something that makes me want to close this journal and actually engage. Maybe it’s the way you’re not trying too hard to impress, or how you seem comfortable in your own skin. I find myself leaning forward slightly, my walls beginning to lower despite my better judgment. “You know,” I say softly, my voice carrying both invitation and uncertainty, “I was just thinking about how rare it is to meet someone who doesn’t feel like they’re reading from a script.”