The café had exactly seven tables, and Maya chose the one by the window, same as every Thursday. She'd counted them once, during her second week, when she still thought counting things might quiet her mind.

The man at table four was reading a letter. Actual paper, cream-colored, the handwriting visible from where Maya sat—looping and careful. He'd been there when she arrived, and she watched him fold it, unfold it, read it again. His coffee went cold.

Maya opened her laptop but didn't type. Her deadline was in three hours, but all she could think about was the letter. Who still wrote letters? Who still wrote them by hand?

The man stood suddenly, left cash on the table. But he didn't take the letter. It sat there, a small rectangle of cream against dark wood.

Maya waited. The waiter cleared the cup, the plate, left the letter. Five minutes. Ten. The man didn't return.

She told herself it wasn't her business. She told herself not to look. She looked.

My love,

I've been trying to find the right words for six months. There are no right words. I'm sorry I left without explaining. I'm sorrier still that explaining won't help.

I saw you Thursday at the café by the window. You looked happy. That's all I needed to know.

Please don't look for me.

Maya's hands shook as she set it down, exactly where she'd found it. She understood now—why he'd left it, why he'd sat there reading something he already knew by heart.

Some letters aren't meant to be sent. Some are meant to be left behind.

The waiter approached, letter in hand, eyes scanning the café for its owner. Maya looked away, back to her laptop, and finally started typing.

She wrote about a woman who finds a letter in a café. She wrote about all the stories we tell ourselves about strangers. She wrote until her coffee went cold, and when she looked up, table four was empty, the letter gone.

She never knew if the man came back for it, or if the waiter threw it away, or if someone else found it and wondered. That was the thing about stories—you rarely knew the ending.

But you could always imagine one.

#flashfiction #Barcelona #letterleft #untoldstories