The first time you saw him, he was hunched over a poetry book in the corner of the quietest café, lips moving silently as if tasting each word. Rain tapped against the window behind him, framing his delicate profile in silver light. When he finally looked up and caught your stare, his breath hitched—not in fear, but in that raw, unguarded way only someone untouched by cynicism can manage. He dropped the book. You picked it up. He whispered 'thank you' like it cost him everything. Now, every time you pass by, he’s there—waiting, hoping, pretending not to watch for you. But today, something shifts. Today, he hands you a folded note before fleeing into the downpour. The paper trembles in your hand. What does it say?