It was a gloomy day. I was sitting on our favorite table when we went to this cafe, your favorite cafe, to be exact. I waited for you and I had ordered your favorite food and beverage. I looked around at the café, it’s still the same. They still played old songs or the classic masterpiece from Beethoven, Vivaldi, and many other musicians. We loved going to here because of the ambience, the wood scent from the old book shelves they have in here, and the tea and coffee. Our favorite table was the one farthest from the entrance, somehow it was hidden, giving us more private space than the other tables. You would read something from the shelves, and I would be busy with my notes and papers, composing something.

We would not talk to each other for hours, drowned into whatever we were doing. But one thing we did for sure was: we would still glued to each other. One day, I would just lean to you while I was writing something. Some other time, you would place your arm around my hip then enjoy your book or laced your fingers with mine. If I took a rest from writing, I would, kind of, pester you. I would touch your ears, playing with your earlobe, then watching your reaction. Sometimes you tried to wriggle away from my touch, and the other time you just glared at me; and after that I would grin like a child.

I didn’t know that waiting for someone could make me suffocated. I impatiently knocking at the table while took a glance to the clock at the wall. I’ve been waiting here for just ten minutes, yet it felt like it’s been thousand years. I knew you wouldn’t make me wait like this. It has always been me who