In the overly warm, too-loud Starbucks, the air hums with stories. People drift in and out like waves, but the ones who stay? They’re the real puzzle pieces. They tell me everything without ever speaking to me — a flick of a hand, a tilted head, the way their shoulders rise when they laugh.

A group of girls in the corner talk about boys, the kind of boys who never take a hint. They want him to make the first move, but they want him to know that without asking. Then there’s the guy in the armchair — the one with the look. The weird uncle at Thanksgiving look. He leans in too close and I can hear it before he says it: Have you got a boyfriend yet?

And then there’s the one beside me. Laptop open, headphones in, words spilling onto the screen for hours. Every so often, our eyes meet — not enough to be creepy, not enough to be flirty. Just enough to say, I see you. And I see you burning the midnight oil in the middle of the day.