If I Could Just Get Your Attention(Fred Duckworth) Damian sat on the worn wooden bench outside the local bookstore, his sketchbook open but untouched, his pencil dangling loosely between his fingers. His eyes, however, were fixed across the street, where Stephanie stood in the soft glow of the café’s window, her laughter spilling out as she chatted with a customer. Her auburn hair caught the late afternoon light, framing her face like a halo, and her smile—man, that smile—could unravel him in a heartbeat. Stephanie was the barista at Brewed Awakening, a small, cozy spot where Damian had become a regular, not for the coffee but for the chance to see her.

She was everything he wasn’t: vibrant, effortless, a whirlwind of warmth. Her hazel eyes sparkled with a quiet confidence, and the way she moved—graceful yet unpretentious, like she was dancing to a song only she could hear—made his chest ache. She had this habit of tucking a stray curl behind her ear while she worked, a small gesture that felt intimate, like a secret she didn’t know she was sharing. She remembered customers’ names, their stories, their orders, and when she called out “Damian, Small Cinnamon Dolce Latte!” with that teasing lilt, he felt seen, even if just for a moment.

In his daydreams, he was bolder. He’d walk into the café, catch her eye, and say something clever that’d make her laugh that bright, unguarded laugh. He’d plan the perfect date: picking her up at eight, his old Mustang polished to a shine, him in a crisp button-down, holding the door as she slid into the passenger seat. They’d drive to the cliffs overlooking the coast, where he’d set up a picnic under the stars, the kind with fairy lights and her favorite lemon tarts. He’d walk on the traffic side of the sidewalk, shielding her from the world, and when the night grew chilly, he’d drape his jacket over her shoulders, catching the faint scent of her lavender shampoo. He imagined dancing with her at some fancy club, her hand in his, or quieter moments—sitting on his couch, her head resting against his shoulder as they talked until dawn about her dreams of traveling to Florence, her love for old jazz records, and the way she wanted to make a difference, maybe open a community art space someday.

But reality was less forgiving. Damian was a graphic designer, talented but cripplingly shy, his confidence confined to the lines he drew on paper. Stephanie, with her easy charm, seemed galaxies out of reach. He’d seen her with friends, always surrounded, always laughing, and he couldn’t shake the feeling he’d fade into her background—a shadow, as his heart kept whispering. What could he offer someone like her? He wasn’t wealthy, wasn’t flashy. His car was a ’97 with a temperamental radio, and his apartment was a cluttered mess of sketchbooks and half-finished canvases. Worse, he’d overheard her once, talking about a guy she’d dated—a musician, all charisma and grand gestures. Damian couldn’t compete with that.

What stopped him most, though, was the fear she’d say no. Not just a polite no, but one that would shatter the fragile world he’d built in his head, where she might one day see him the way he saw her. Every time he got close—when she’d hand him his coffee and their fingers brushed—he’d rehearse the words: Stephanie, would you maybe want to grab dinner sometime? But his tongue would tangle, and he’d mumble “Thanks” instead, retreating to his bench to sketch her from memory.

Today, though, something shifted. She’d looked at him a second longer when she handed him his coffee, her smile softer, like she was waiting for him to say more. Now, as he sat across the street, his sketchbook held a new drawing: Stephanie, her head tilted, a rose tucked behind her ear, and a note scrawled beneath it in his shaky handwriting: For you, if I could ever be brave enough.

He didn’t know if he’d ever work up the nerve to give it to her. But for now, he let himself dream, the song in his head weaving promises of a life where he’d wake up every morning to make her smile, where he’d be enough.

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