A Message Over Coffee Part 2

After that first meeting in the park, something inside me calmed down. Not because everything was clear right away. Actually, quite the opposite—Helena was a mystery, but one that didn’t need solving. It was enough just to be close.

The next day she wrote briefly:

“Thank you for a peaceful afternoon. I haven’t laughed so naturally in a long time.”

I replied:

“And I haven’t felt time flowing at the right pace for a long while.”

A week later, she suggested we meet again. This time not for a picnic, but for a walk. A quiet park by the lake, where the paths wind under the trees and benches hide like secrets. I brought two coffees in paper cups. She had a blanket and a sweater because the day had grown cooler.

We sat on a bench overlooking the water. The leaves were starting to change color, and the wind smelled like autumn. And again—silence. But not the kind that hurts. The kind that simply lets you be. Helena hugged her knees to her chest, wrapped herself in the sweater, and after a moment said:

- You know, Sheldon, the hardest thing about being alone isn’t that no one makes you tea. It’s that there’s no one to say to that your day was just... ordinary.

I looked at her carefully. There was everything in those words. The loneliness of mature people isn’t a drama—it’s the quiet presence of absence. And what we did, writing to each other every morning, was like slowly filling that emptiness.

I only said then:

- I, too, didn’t have anyone to tell about ordinary days for a long time.

And so our next weeks unfolded—unhurried, soft like an old blanket, and familiar like the smell of coffee. We saw each other more and more often. Sometimes in the park, sometimes in a small café around the corner. Helena brought her own cookies or a book we would talk about for a long time afterward. I took pictures of leaves, birds, water—and she laughed, saying I had an eye for things no one else noticed.

Over time, our conversations changed rhythm. We didn’t need to tell everything anymore—it was enough just to be. We sat, looking ahead, sharing a cup of coffee and a silence that didn’t need filling.

One day, as the sun began to hide behind the trees, Helena turned to me and said:

- I want you to know... even if nothing big happens, something important already has. I feel seen again.

I didn’t answer right away. I took her hand, like back then with the cookies. She smiled. And again—no words, no pressure. Just presence. I know this isn’t a fairy tale. There are no grand gestures, rushed declarations, or dramatic scenes here. But there is something much more precious—a space to be yourself.

And today, when I get a message from her in the morning:

“Good morning. Today’s tea is raspberry. And you?”

—I smile.

Because I know there’s someone somewhere who also starts their day thinking of me.

And maybe that’s the beginning. Not of a new life—but a new presence. One that stays.