I never believed in fate.
Not because life had been cruel to me, but because fate always seemed like an excuse people used when they couldn't explain things.
That rainy Thursday evening, I left work exhausted.
My umbrella had broken halfway through the storm, and the only place nearby was a small café hidden between two old buildings.
The café was almost empty.
I ordered a cup of coffee and sat by the window, watching raindrops race down the glass.
That's when I noticed it.
A brown envelope.
It was sitting on the table beside mine.
At first, I assumed someone had forgotten it.
I looked around.
No one seemed to be searching for anything.
Curiosity won.
I picked it up.
No name.
No address.
Nothing.
Just one sentence written across the front:
"If you're reading this, perhaps you were always meant to."
My heart skipped.
I don't know why.
Maybe because those words felt personal.
Like they were speaking directly to me.
I should have left it alone.
Instead, I opened it.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
The handwriting was beautiful.
The kind that looked like every word had been carefully thought about.
The letter wasn't addressed to anyone.
It spoke about loneliness.
About watching people fall in love while pretending you didn't care.
About carrying feelings for someone who would probably never know.
And then there was one line.
One line that made me freeze.
"I think the saddest thing in the world is meeting the right person at the wrong time."
I read it three times.
Because it was exactly what I had once told my best friend after my last heartbreak.
Exactly.
Word for word.
Suddenly, the café door opened.
A man stepped inside.
Tall.
Dark hair.
Rain dripping from his jacket.
His eyes swept across the room.
Searching.
Looking worried.
Looking for something.
Then his gaze landed on the envelope in my hands.
And his expression changed.
"Oh no," he whispered.
My stomach tightened.
Because I knew instantly...
The letter belonged to him.
And judging from the look on his face
I was never supposed to read it.