“Waiting for someone?” she asks, turning to me, a small smile on her lips. Her voice is soft, like the rustle of pages, and I straighten up, suddenly nervous. “Just… enjoying the quiet,” I say, nodding at the street. She steps closer, and I can see the way her hair shimmers—deep brown, with hints of chestnut when the café light hits it just right. “It’s my favorite time of day,” she says, looking up at the sky. “No noise, no hurry. Just… calm.” I nod, because I can’t find the words to say that the calm isn’t what’s making my heart race—it’s her, standing here in the dark, her hair like a secret only the night gets to see.
We talk for an hour, maybe two—about books, about the city, about the way the moon looks different when you’re alone versus when you’re with someone. She tells me her name is Lila, that she works at the library downtown, that she comes here late because the bookstore’s back room has the best collection of poetry. Every time she laughs, a strand of hair falls forward, and she tucks it behind her ear, her fingers brushing her cheek, and I want to reach out and do it for her. In the black scene, with only the streetlights and café glow to guide us, her hair is the first thing I notice—the way it moves, the way it catches light, the way it frames her face like a soft frame. It’s not just hair; it’s a part of her, warm and real, in a world that feels cold and distant at night.
When she says she should go, I hesitate, then pull a small book of poetry from my bag—the same one I’d been reading when I first saw her weeks ago. “Here,” I say, handing it to her. “I thought you might like it. The poems are about night… and finding light in the dark.” She takes it, her fingers brushing mine, and smiles. “Thank you,” she says, flipping through the pages. Then, she pulls a pen from her bag and writes something on the inside cover, before handing it back. “For you,” she says. “So you’ll remember to look for the light too.” When she walks away, her brown hair swinging gently as she goes, I open the book. Her handwriting is neat, curly, and it says: “The light’s never far—sometimes it’s just in a strand of hair, or a shared smile. Find me here tomorrow night? — Lila.”
I come back the next night, and the night after that. We meet at the same spot, under the flickering streetlight, and talk until the café closes. Sometimes, she brings me tea, and I bring her pastries from the bakery down the block. Every night, in the black scene, her hair is my anchor—the first thing I look for when I turn the corner, the thing that makes my heart calm when I’m nervous, the thing that feels like home. One night, it rains, soft and gentle, and I hold my jacket over her head. She laughs, and a wet strand of hair sticks to her forehead, and I reach out, brushing it away. My fingers linger, and she looks up at me, her eyes dark in the night, and I kiss her. It’s slow, soft, the taste of rain on her lips, and her hair is warm against my cheek, even when it’s wet.
Months later, we still meet at the bookstore, though now we go home together—our apartment just a few blocks away, filled with books and plants and the smell of her coffee in the morning. One night, as we sit on the couch, the lights off, only the glow of the TV to light the room, I run my fingers through her hair. It’s still brown, still soft, still catching the light even in the dark. “You know,” I say, “the first time I saw you, I thought your hair was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.” She laughs, leaning into my side. “Just my hair?” she asks. I kiss the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo—vanilla and cinnamon. “No,” I say. “But it was the first thing that made me notice you. The first thing that made me want to know more.”
She looks up at me, her eyes shining, and I kiss her again. Outside, the city is still dark, the streetlights still flickering. But inside, with her in my arms, her brown hair in my hands, there’s no darkness—only light. The kind of light that comes from love, from shared smiles, from knowing that even in the blackest scenes, there’s something warm to hold onto. Her hair isn’t just a part of her; it’s a part of us—the first spark, the quiet reminder, the thread of light that brought us together. And as we sit there, in the dark, with only each other, I know that no matter what the night brings, I’ll always find her—find us—in that strand of brown hair, glowing in the black.
