The café sat at the edge of town, a quiet place where the lights were low and the patrons quieter. I was perched on a worn leather stool by the window, my coffee growing cold. A jazz record spun, filling the gaps between hushed conversations and the soft clinking of porcelain cups.

She was there, across the room. A vision in red, she seemed out of place, like a bright poppy in a field of muted colors. Her gaze met mine, and for a heartbeat, the world paused. There was an understanding, a shared moment of what could be—a life, a story, a dance of two souls. But as quickly as the moment came, it passed, leaving an afterimage like the sun's glow when you close your eyes.

She continued her conversation, her laughter light, like the tinkling of wind chimes on a breezy day. I took a sip of my coffee, now cold, mustering the courage to approach her. Every word I planned felt inadequate, every gesture rehearsed. Time seemed to slow, the weight of the missed opportunity growing heavier.

And then, as subtly as she had entered my world, she left. The door chimed its melancholic note as she stepped out into the night. I was left with the ghost of her presence, the memory of a glance, and the weight of what could have been.

In the silence that followed, the café seemed emptier. The jazz record had ended, leaving behind only the soft hum of conversations and the distant sounds of the city. The night outside was vast and filled with countless stars, each one a reminder of opportunities missed and paths not taken.

I paid my bill, leaving the café and the memory of her behind. The streets were quiet, the world asleep, but my mind was alive with thoughts of a chance not taken, a love lost in the fleeting moment of a glance. The pain of what might have been is always sharper than the pain of what was.