The coffee in the window had stopped steaming by the time she noticed it.

María watched from across the narrow street, tucked into the shadow of a Gothic archway. She'd been standing there for eleven minutes—she knew because she'd checked her phone twice, though not to see the time. To see if he'd messaged. He hadn't.

The coffee sat on the windowsill of apartment 3B, exactly where Jordi used to leave hers when they lived together. Same blue ceramic mug with the chipped rim. Same placement, centered precisely between the wrought iron bars. But Jordi didn't live there anymore. She did. Or someone did.

A hand reached through the window—slender, unfamiliar—and retrieved the mug. María felt something sharp lodge itself between her ribs.

She should leave. She had work in twenty minutes. She should stop doing this thing she'd been doing every Monday for six weeks now, timing her walk to pass his old building, their old building, looking for signs of the life that had replaced theirs.

The hand appeared again, setting the mug back on the sill. Still full. Still steaming, she realized. It wasn't the same coffee. Someone had refreshed it.

That was the detail that broke her.

Not that someone new lived there. Not even that someone might love someone the way she and Jordi had once loved each other, in that tiny apartment with the stubborn window that only opened halfway. It was the care of it. The small gesture. The noticing. Coming back to make sure the coffee stayed warm.

Jordi had never come back. Not for the coffee. Not for anything.

María pulled out her phone. This time she typed: Stop watering the fern. I'm not coming back for it. She hesitated, thumb hovering over send, watching the cursor blink. Then she deleted it, word by word, until the screen was empty again.

Across the street, two hands reached through the window together now, lifting the mug in unison—one steadying, one gripping. Careful. Domestic. Learning each other's rhythms.

María turned away from the archway, back toward Las Ramblas, toward work, toward the rest of her Monday. Her coffee would be cold when she got there. She'd drink it anyway. She always did. But maybe tomorrow she'd stop for a fresh one. Maybe tomorrow she'd take a different street.

The steam from apartment 3B dissolved into the March air behind her, carrying away something she couldn't name but no longer needed to hold.

#flashfiction #Barcelona #lettinggo #briefencounters