The next night he found her in the same spot, writing in the same journal with her feet tucked beneath her. This time she was wearing thick-framed black glasses and a white cotton sweater. She bit her lip as she wrote. He wondered why she didn’t order a drink before she sat down. Who was this girl that seemed so caught up in her journal? Nick decided it was time to find out.

After telling his supervisor he was taking a break, he took a seat across from her. “Hi. I’m Nick,” he said.

Without even the slightest acknowledgment that she heard him, she kept scribbling away.

Nick cleared his throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I was just curious because you seem to be so into what you’re writing there.”

She kept writing, and after a few more seconds of awkward silence, Nick regretted trying to talk to her.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said and stood up.

“Can you help me with something?” the girl said.

When he looked at her, he was taken by her bright green eyes, which were unlike any color he’d ever seen before. The look on her face wasn’t sad, but he wouldn’t call it happy either. He sat back down. “Sure.”

She set her pen within her journal and closed it. She glanced out the window at the cars passing by on the busy street. She picked up the bag that was leaning against the chair on the floor and stood up. “I have to go,” she said.

“Wait. What did you want me to help you with?”

She smiled. “It’s nothing. Thanks for talking to me.” She walked toward the door and stopped. She faced him and said, “I’m Sylvie. Do you work tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” She smiled again and walked out into the night.

“Who is that girl?” he said to his co-worker Dylan.

“No idea,” Dylan replied. “She kinda reminds me of an older guy who used to come here all the time. He used to sit in that same chair.”

As Nick drove home that night, he couldn’t get Sylvie out of his mind, this cryptic girl with the relentless drive to get whatever she was writing just perfect.

The next night Sylvie sat in the same spot with the same determination to get the words out of her head and onto paper.

“Can I ask what you’re writing?” Nick said when he took his break for the night.

Just as she had the night before, she put her pen into her journal and closed it. “It’s nothing.” She smiled nervously and gestured to her head. “Just thoughts I have. You’d probably think they were silly.”

Nick grinned. “I don’t think I could find anything you do silly.”

He noticed her cheeks redden and hoped he hadn’t offended her. “I’d love to know what it is that has you so captivated,” he said.

She put the journal into her bag. “I just write whatever comes to my head. I doubt it would get anyone’s attention.”

Somehow, he was sure she was being modest. Even though he’d never read anything she’d written, something about her told him if he did read anything of hers, he’d hang onto every word.

For the next two weeks, he did hang onto every word that danced from her lips. She wouldn’t talk about herself much, but he learned that she was a writer, she lived alone with her dad, and that her mom died last year after a lengthy battle with cancer. He noticed that when she talked about her dad, she always glanced out the window. How would he describe the look in her eyes when she looked outside? Sadness? Or was it expectation?

When she talked about her mom, Nick wondered if all the words she wrote in her journal were about her. She spoke of a deep bond that had been broken too soon by her mom’s death.

She also asked about his life. He told her he was a junior at the University of Texas where he was studying journalism. She seemed intrigued by this. She told him she always wanted to go to college, but her family didn’t have the money. Her tone of voice was marked with regret.

Not once would she let him read anything she’d written, and he didn’t push her. He just hoped she would eventually feel comfortable enough with him to let him behind her wall.

After they’d been talking on his breaks every night he worked for the past two weeks, he finally got the courage to ask her for a real date. “Do you think we could go to dinner together sometime?” He hated how awkward he sounded.

She smiled. “I really like you, Nick. I wish I would’ve met you a long time ago.”

He grinned. “Is that a yes?”

She laughed. “Yes.” She pulled a page out of her journal and wrote out her address. “You’re off tomorrow, right?” She handed him the paper.

“Great.” He didn’t want to seem overly excited, but he couldn’t hide the fact that he was looking forward to being with her for more than the fifteen minutes he had every night on his break. “I’ll pick you up at 6:00.”

He took her to The Carillon, an upscale restaurant near the university campus.

“You look beautiful,” he said, commenting on her black sweater over a white dress.

“Thanks. I don’t think anyone’s ever told me that before.”

The comment caught him off guard. How had no one ever told her she was beautiful before?

Aside from the comment, she was unusually upbeat throughout dinner. It wasn’t that she always seemed unhappy. It just seemed like her mind was sometimes split between being there with him and being somewhere else he couldn’t guess. Tonight, however, she was completely present.

“My dad is an English teacher,” she told him when he asked her more about her family. “He’s a stickler for perfection.”

“That’s why you’re always writing and erasing and writing more.”

She laughed. “It has to be perfect,” she said in a mocking tone. “No one will take you seriously if it’s not perfect.”

For the first time during the night, she looked toward the windows of the restaurant with a look of sadness on her face.

“Remind me never to show him anything I’ve written,” Nick said, trying to ease the awkwardness of the moment.

She looked at him and smiled. “You’re already perfect,” she said.

Nick twisted uncomfortably in his chair. “I wish that were true.”

She reached her hand across the table and held his. “If only you could see what I see.” Her soft fingers against his brought goosebumps to his arms.

Sylvie was unlike any girl he’d ever known. She said what she meant, but she didn’t say everything that came to her mind. Many thoughts, Nick assumed, were saved only for her journal.

The drive back to Sylvie’s house was quiet. Nick glanced at her several times as she stared at the passing scenery in the dark. When they arrived back at the small house where Sylvie lived, he wondered why he didn’t see a vehicle in the driveway. Her house was only a few blocks from the coffee shop, so she could easily walk there. But he wondered where her dad was.

Nick held her hand as he walked her to the front door.

“Thank you for tonight,” she said. “I’ll never forget it.”

He laughed at her odd comment. “We’ll do it again sometime, right?”

She smiled, then reached into the purse she’d brought with her. She pulled out a folded piece of paper from her journal and handed it to him.

“What’s this?”

She took a deep breath. “I finished it. It’s finally perfect.”

Nick’s eyes widened as he began to unfold it.

She grabbed his hands. “Not yet.” Her tone was serious. “I want you to be the first to read it, but you have to promise me you won’t read it until tomorrow.”

“Why?”

She smiled, but there was something more behind it. “It’s just very important. Will you promise me?”

“Of course,” Nick said. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow?”

Before she could answer, she leaned forward and kissed him. Her lips were soft and he didn’t want it to end.

She pulled away. “Thank you for tonight.” She turned and entered the house, leaving Nick in a daze.

Instead of driving back to his apartment, Nick drove to the coffee shop.

“Couldn’t stay away on your night off?” Dylan said when he walked in.

Nick laughed. “Just dropped Sylvie off. Didn’t really feel like going home just yet.”

Dylan frowned. “That bad, huh?”

“Actually, it was great.”

Dylan laughed. “Apparently not if you’re here and not with her.”

Nick waved him off. He thought about ordering a drink, but decided to just sit in the chair where Sylvie usually sat. It was soft. Comfortable. He could get why she’d want to sit here for hours writing in her journal.

He pulled out the folded piece of paper. After weeks of relentless writing, erasing, and writing some more, Sylvie finally believed what she was writing was perfect. And he couldn’t even read it until tomorrow.

He glanced out the window at the passing cars and saw his own reflection in the glass. He twirled the folded paper in his hands, wondering why it was so important for him to wait until tomorrow to read it. Surely, she wouldn’t know if he read it now. But she trusted him. Could he really lie to her and tell her he’d waited when he really hadn’t? Did he really want to start their relationship that way?

Was that even what they had? A relationship?

As he looked back down at the paper in his hand, he decided he couldn’t lie to her. She meant too much to him. He unfolded the paper, promising himself he’d tell her the truth that he just couldn’t wait.

Dear Dad,

It’s been a year since mom died and nine months since you left. I miss you, but I understand why you don’t want to come back. I just wish that I knew if you were okay. I wonder if you ever think about me. Do you remember the last thing you told me? I remember it every time I look at a busy street and think of what might have happened if I would have been driving the car instead of mom.

Do you remember what you said? Even though mom only had a few years left, you would have given anything if I had been the one driving when the truck slammed into us. Mom would be alive, and I, the daughter you never wanted because I ruined the childless life you hoped to have with mom, would be gone.

I sometimes wonder about your logic, Dad. Because you didn’t want me, you seemed determined to make me believe no one else would ever want me either. I could never be perfect for anyone, least of all you. But you were wrong. I met someone, Dad. His name is Nick, and I think he loves me. He hasn’t told me that he does, but he makes me feel that way when I’m with him. He doesn’t ask me to be perfect, and yet I wish I could be for him.

Do you know that I sit in the coffee shop you used to go to for hours every day? I sit by the window just like you used to and I sometimes look outside to see if you might pass by. I thought I’d seen you a few times, but I’ve never been able to catch you.

Do you know what I do during all those hours at the coffee shop? I’ve been writing this letter, trying to perfectly capture what I feel because if any letter a person writes should ever be perfect, it should be a suicide letter, right?

Of course, I doubt this letter comes even close to perfection, but Nick gave me the one thing I never expected but desperately wanted before I die: love. That’s what makes this letter perfect, and now I can die knowing that someone cared about me. That someone took me seriously.

When you read this letter, I hope that you’ll know that even though you never loved me, I always loved you and hoped you’d find it in yourself to be grateful that I was your daughter. Who knows? Maybe you will someday. Good bye, Dad.

Your Daughter,

Sylvie

Nick jumped from his seat and ran toward the door.

“What’s going on?” Dylan called out.

Nick ignored him and ran to his car, pulling out his phone as he went. He dialed 911 and gave them Sylvie’s address. He pushed the gas down all the way as he drove, ignoring all the stop signs he could. When he arrived at Sylvie’s house, two paramedics were rolling a stretcher down the driveway.

Nick jumped out of his car and ran to Sylvie, who looked at him through weak eyes.

“You weren’t supposed to read the letter.” Her voice was hoarse. “You were supposed to let me die.”

“He was wrong, Sylvie.” He grabbed her hand. “And I do love you.”

She forced a smile and closed her eyes. “I love you too.”