Kismet

Have you ever woken up before your alarm, waiting for it to go off? I miss its sound jolting me in fear, wondering if I’m late. Now, I lie still, annoyed by the city sounds, my neighbor going bananas with a hammer at 7 o’clock, or a subway passing by on the express tracks at full speed.
The phone beeped. Sabrina took a glimpse, her heart pounding, and the room fell silent. Time seemed to stop for a second. It said, “Good morning.”
“The alarm goes off,” she sighed. It’s time - another Groundhog Day. I haven’t had a decent breakfast; the only safe choice was a cup of coffee.
Dear reader, forgive my manners. Let me introduce myself: I’m Sabrina, a journalist in her thirties, caught up in a time loop, reliving the same day repeatedly. If you saw the movie, you’ll understand the gist. Chuckling.
I used to be a talented journalist, but my career had plateaued. My once-burning passion for writing had dwindled into mere embers. Now, sitting at this desk, staring at the blank screen of my computer, the city’s bustling streets outside the window feel like a relentless reminder of the life I’m trapped in.
Not to forget another aspect of my life that had lost its luster, my situationship with a handsome man, which reminds me I have to respond to his text.
To be honest, I don’t have the slightest clue how I can respond to that without overreacting. Was he smiling when he wrote it? Was it a friendly text? Did he miss me, hiding his excitement behind subtlety? Maybe I should ignore him and read out his reaction.
Sabrina’s boss couldn’t help but notice her engaged in a quiet conversation with herself. He decided to stand and approach her office door. There, he lightly tapped on the glass, successfully grabbing her attention. Sabrina, startled by the sudden interruption, heard him communicate,
“Would you mind stepping outside for a moment?”
Sabrina: After you, sir.
Mr. Richard Caldwell: How was your weekend? Anything interesting?
Sabrina: I’m going out of my mind. I miss the old me, just thoughts Sabrina can’t spell. I’m doing well, nothing special, just work.
Mr. Richard Caldwell: Sighing. Are you sure? Richard knew she was holding back. Sabrina, take some days off. Clear your mind.
Sabrina: It’s not necessary, so much to get done.
Mr. Richard Caldwell: It’s an order. Check in at a spa. Meet that handsome fella of yours. How are things going, if you don’t mind me asking?
Sabrina: Looking at the ignored notification. Fine. I have to go submit the article for this evening’s print issue.
Mr. Richard Caldwell: Nodding. Go ahead.
Dear reader, that was my stepfather, Richard Caldwell, the editor-in-chief. He married my mother one year before she passed away.
Sabrina sat in her office, staring at her phone. Another text appeared:
Are you busy tonight?
Looking around with a goofy smile on her face, she wrote back:
I’m free. What’s on your mind?
Finally. Thought you were mad at me.
I just had so much on my plate, hardly checked my phone.
There’s a business party, and I would love you to accompany me.
Snobby rich people with privileged, rich-people issues, chuckling. I’m there. Can’t leave you in the midst of it all.
I’ll come by at 7 to pick you up.
This is Alex. I’ve known him for about three years. Our relationship is entangled. I’ll take on Richard’s advice and leave early to get ready.
As the hours flew by, she busily prepared for the upcoming soirée. Alex texted, I’m waiting in front of your building. Sabrina appeared in the hallway, looking amazing, wearing a backless long black dress. She spun around to flaunt it. Alex was utterly mesmerized.
They got into the car, and as they arrived at the party, it was already in full swing. All eyes turned toward them, their entrance capturing the attention of everyone in the room.
Alex: I’m glad you’re here. I’m nervous. You look amazing.
Sabrina: You as well. Fixing his tie.
The room glittered. Not in the soft way candlelight does, but in the sharp way glass does when it wants to remind you how expensive it is. Crystal laughed in people’s hands. Conversations floated by, polished and empty, like headlines that promised depth and delivered weather. Chuckling.
Sabrina stood beside Alex, her black dress suddenly feeling like a sentence written in the wrong genre.
They talked about markets, about platforms, about how nobody reads the paper anymore.
“Web traffic is what matters now,” someone said, swirling a drink like it had a point to make.
“Print is nostalgia,” another laughed.
Sabrina smiled the way journalists do when they’re already writing a different version of the room in their words.
Dear reader, this is the part where I’m supposed to nod. Blend in, right? But tell me, how do you discuss the future with people who pay others to see it for them?
One of Alex’s coworkers leaned in, curiosity sharpened into something else.
“So what do you write?” he asked.
Sabrina answered as chill as cotton candy melting on an unsweetened mouth: “Stories.”
“Stories?” He smiled. “I thought journalists just chase quotes and sandwiches now.”
Dear reader, you felt it, didn’t you? Intellectual sedation. Likewise.
Sabrina felt that familiar, tightening loop, the one where she edited herself into something more palatable, adjusted her tone, her questions, her edges to fit someone else’s evening.
She looked at Alex. He looked back, unsure. Present, but not standing.
That was the moment.
Dear reader, sometimes you don’t lose people in arguments. You lose them in silence.
Sabrina set her glass down, untouched.
“I think I’m done for tonight,” she said, more to the room than to him.
No one tried to stop her. Alex watched, like someone witnessing a train leave a station he hadn’t decided to board.
She mumbled, I hope you enjoyed the free trial, because the full version of the attitude comes with far fewer cushions.
The morning after the party, the newsroom smelled like burnt coffee and last night’s headlines. Sabrina sat at her desk, staring at a screen that wanted facts when all she had were feelings. Her inbox filled with urgency. Her phone filled itself with Alex. She ignored both.
A delivery kid appeared, carrying a box of pretzels that looked like they’d been twisted by someone with strong opinions.
“Boat-library,” he announced, dropping a stack of flyers on the reception desk.
Sabrina glanced up at the kid. The word didn’t belong there. It floated above the hum of keyboards and ringing phones like a typo in the middle of reality.
She walked toward the reception, took a pretzel and a flyer.
Dear reader, if you’re wondering what matters so far, I’d say good luck with that.
The flyer sat beside her keyboard all day. It absorbed coffee rings. By evening, it looked like it had already lived a small life. She folded it into her purse and went home.
She passed the harbor the next day without stopping. The day after that, she slowed down. The third day, she turned.
“Boat-library,” he said. Huh! The sign said 3-hour ride, clearly painted by someone with too much optimism and too little precision.
A voice mumbled behind me, “You came.”
Before I could turn around, a hand pushed me, not aggressively, mind you, just firm enough to remind me that sometimes life, or random men, don’t wait for consent.
“We’re undocking in 2 minutes,” he said, while walking on the gangplank.
Dear reader, if this is how the universe is introducing improbable acquaintances—with a shove, a sigh, and bad timing. I’m in.
I’m inside. The air smells like paper that’s been forgiven by time. Coffee whispers instead of shouts. Shelves lean in, curious, as if they want to know what I’ll do next. The kid landed somewhere near the counter next to a woman who looked like she had been arguing with a paperback all morning.
Sabrina ordered a cup that tasted like it had been made by someone who preferred books to customers. She sat. She read. Sabrina noticed the city kept its noise. The boat kept its quiet.
All of a sudden, someone laughed quietly in a corner, like they were afraid of interrupting a sentence.
There he was, standing by the poetry shelf, holding a book like he wasn’t sure whether to read it or apologize to it. Sabrina noticed him the way you notice a pause in music.
Dear reader, this is where I would usually overthink it. This is where I would decide what it meant before it had the chance to be anything at all.
I didn’t.
He sat in front of me near the window. Turning pages slowly. Not in a hurry to arrive at the end of anything. I watched him over the rim of my cup.
Dear reader, don’t romanticize this. At this point, he was just a man and a book. I’ve been disappointed by both before. We spoke eventually, not because we planned to, but because silence has a way of inviting commentary.
“Bad coffee,” he said, nodding at her cup.
I raised an eyebrow. “You ordered it too.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “I make poor life choices.”
He closed his book like he’d reached a footnote he didn’t trust.
“Real coffee?” he asked.
I blinked. “Define real.”
“Not this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the whispering espresso machine and the timid foam. “Something that actually commits to being heard. Italian, strong, somewhere jazz might be playing.”
Dear reader, this night was tranquil, my muse was stirred - a night that embraced simplicity. It was not an aimless walk. The stars conversed with the moon. Clouds took confidants, gathered, sharing stories.
If this were a romance, then this is where the music would swell.