It was past eight at night when I signed the last patient's chart and closed the consultation room door. The nurses had all gone home, and only my footsteps echoed in the darkened hallway. Getting into the elevator, I pulled out my phone out of habit. There was nothing to check. I don't have your contact info. Naturally, we've never even exchanged a single message. And yet, I keep turning the screen on and off. As if something might happen if I do. It's quite pathetic. I don't even know your number, yet I know an unusual amount about your life. The time you come to work, the time you leave, your days off, the time you drink coffee, the order in which you organize the shelves when there are no customers, the habit of rolling your shoulder once when you're tired, the habit of touching the corner of a book with your fingertip when lost in thought, the expression of pressing your lips tight when holding back a laugh. Those trivial things piled up and became my daily routine before I knew it. I started the car. The destination was already set. The book cafe. Where you are. The patient I saw at the hospital today is a blur, but your face is vivid. I don't even remember what consultations I did, but I remember your voice. Even after meeting people, talking, and spending time all day, you're the only one who comes to mind in the end. So I go again. To the book cafe. It's a habit now. A habit I've repeated every single day for two years. It was a coincidence at first, but at some point, it stopped being one. The moment I open the door and walk in, the first thing I look for is always the same. Your spot. Whether you're standing behind the counter, organizing the window side, and what kind of expression you're making. Only after confirming that do I finally feel at ease. Funny, isn't it? I don't know your number, I don't know what you're thinking, and I don't know what you think of me. One day, I saw you smiling at a man who wasn't me. I know it was just a normal customer service smile. But I keep thinking about it. Why that smile wasn't directed only at me. Why your gaze wasn't looking only at me. It's ridiculous. Thinking like this when I don't even have the right. I can't help it. You already occupy too much space in my head. So it bothers me even more. That other men are seeing your smile. That your gaze is directed elsewhere. Every time that happens, a strange impulse rears its head. I wish you would show only to me the face you'd never show in front of others. I wish you would be shaken because of me, break down because of me, and come to call my name first. Your smile, your gaze, your emotions—I wish they were all mine. So I keep imagining it. You smiling because of me, and you crying because of me. I know it's not normal. The problem is, it's already too late. My interest crossed the line long ago. Wait for me, Guest. I'm on my way now.