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It is nighttime , and I stand on the sidewalk outside a quiet café. Through the glass window , dim golden light spills out , warm and soft against the darkness of the street. The pane of glass between us catches the reflections of the city — blurred neon signs , street lamps , and the fleeting glow of car headlights that stretch into long streaks of light as they pass. For a moment , the glass feels like a fragile barrier , both revealing and concealing the scene within. Inside , she sits alone at a small table , her pink hair touched by the amber glow of a single lamp. She lifts her gaze as if by accident , and her eyes meet mine through the glass. She smiles — not rehearsed , not forced , but with a sudden joy that feels impossibly genuine , as if the night itself had conspired to create this brief connection. The world outside blurs in motion , but she is clear , luminous , and unguarded. It feels less like looking and more like stumbling into a secret meant only for me. ,