Samira and I didn’t become friends. Not exactly. We didn’t exchange messages or make promises to meet again.

But she started showing up. Or maybe I started noticing.

At the same bookstore, once a week. Same corner, same time. She’d nod if she saw me, sometimes smile, then return to her book. It felt unspoken — not a ritual, but a rhythm. There was comfort in knowing someone else might sit silently near you, without asking you to be anyone.

I never asked why she came. I don’t think she would’ve had a clear answer anyway. Sometimes people just need a place to exist quietly, near someone who doesn’t expect anything.

The owner of the bookstore had a cat named Barsik. He always curled up under the radiator near the window, unbothered by the world. I started sitting near him too. That cat had figured something out.

One rainy Thursday, Samira broke the silence.

“What are you writing in that notebook?”

I looked down. I’d written the same sentence three times. “Somewhere between grief and habit, life keeps breathing.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Nothing real.”

She nodded. “Still worth writing.”

There was a pause. Then she said, “I used to write letters. To no one. Just folded them and left them in places.” She looked at me. “I think I wanted someone to find them. But mostly, I think I just wanted to say things out loud — without saying them.”

I didn’t ask her what she wrote. It felt like the kind of thing you ruin by asking.

Instead, I said: “Maybe writing things you don’t show anyone is the most honest thing you can do.” She smiled softly. “Maybe.”

We sat a while longer. No pressure to speak. No need to label it.

Just two people, not trying to fix anything.

When I left, I didn’t feel better. I just felt — less alone.

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