C2 The Girl Who Hated Him

The train reached the next city just before noon.

Cities always have their own rhythm. Some move slowly like sleepy rivers. Others rush like storms that never rest.

This one felt somewhere in between.

The air smelled faintly of rain and roasted coffee beans. Street vendors shouted over the noise of buses, and somewhere in the distance a musician played an old violin melody that floated softly above the chaos.

I stepped off the train with my small suitcase and my notebook.

Another city.

Another story waiting to happen.

Traveling alone teaches you a strange kind of freedom.

No one knows who you are.

No one asks where you're going.

No one questions why you're watching people so carefully.

Which is exactly how I found Story Number Two.

It began in a small café.

The café was tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop, the kind of quiet place where the windows are always fogged with warmth and the tables are filled with people pretending to read while secretly listening to conversations around them.

I chose a corner seat.

Not for the coffee.

For the view.

Because directly across the room sat two people who clearly despised each other.

The girl arrived first.

She had sharp eyes, a straight posture, and the kind of confidence that made the entire room shift slightly when she walked in. She placed her bag on the chair and checked her watch with visible impatience.

Five minutes later, the boy walked in.

Tall. Slightly messy hair. The kind of person who looked irritatingly calm even when someone was clearly angry with him.

When he saw her, he smiled.

Not a warm smile.

A dangerous one.

The girl crossed her arms immediately.

"You’re late," she said.

"I’m three minutes late," he replied, pulling out the chair across from her.

"You’re always three minutes late."

"And you’re always exactly on time."

"Because I respect people's time."

He leaned back comfortably.

"I respect it too. I just don’t worship it like you do."

Ah.

Enemies.

The best kind of love story.

I pretended to read my book while secretly writing notes in my notebook.

Their conversation continued like two swords clashing again and again.

"You ruined my presentation," the girl snapped.

"You ruined my entire project first," he replied calmly.

"You deserved it."

"You started it."

"You provoked me."

"You overreacted."

"You exist."

That made him laugh.

A real laugh this time.

And strangely… the girl almost smiled.

Almost.

But something about them felt different.

They weren't just arguing.

They were comfortable arguing.

Which meant this wasn't the beginning of their conflict.

It was the middle.

"Why did you ask me to meet?" she said finally.

The boy's expression softened slightly.

"I didn't," he said.

"You texted me."

"You texted me first."

They both paused.

Then they looked at their phones.

Silence.

The girl frowned.

"I thought you asked me to meet here."

He slowly shook his head.

"I thought you did."

For a brief moment they simply stared at each other.

Confused.

Suspicious.

And just a little curious.

Then the boy leaned forward slightly.

"Well," he said. "Since we're already here…"

She sighed.

"I hate you."

"I know."

But he was smiling again.

And this time… she didn't look away.

I was about to write Story Number Two in my notebook when something strange happened.

Someone sat down across from me.

Without asking.

I looked up.

And for a moment the entire café seemed to grow quieter.

He wasn't part of the arguing couple.

He wasn't a waiter.

He wasn't someone I had noticed before.

But somehow… he looked like someone who had been there the entire time.

Watching.

Observing.

Just like me.

His eyes moved briefly toward my notebook.

Then back to me.

"Collecting stories?" he asked.

His voice was calm. Curious.

As if he already knew the answer.

I blinked in surprise.

"How did you—"

"You've been writing since you walked in."

He nodded slightly toward the arguing couple.

"Enemies to lovers?"

I stared at him.

"You noticed that too?"

A faint smile appeared on his lips.

"I notice things."

Something about him felt strange.

Not dangerous.

Not uncomfortable.

Just… familiar in a way that made no sense.

As if this moment had already happened somewhere before.

He stood up slowly.

"I hope you write it well," he said.

"Some stories deserve to be remembered."

Then he walked out of the café.

Just like that.

Without even telling me his name.

When I looked outside through the window, he was already gone.

Almost like he had never been there at all.

I opened my notebook again.

And this time I wrote two things.

Story Number Two:

A girl who hates a boy so much she can't stop meeting him.

And below that…

A question.

Why does the same stranger keep appearing wherever I go?

The journey was becoming far more interesting than I expected.

And somehow…

I had a feeling this mysterious man would appear again.

Soon.