She came in and out of the coffee shop starting in the spring. Her cerulean hair was hard to miss, and her fair skin looked as soft as silk. It was these small details that I cherished more than anything in the few moments we would spend talking about our writing. Rather, the moments we spent talking about mine. She never dared speak about hers. She would just silently grip her coffee cup between both hands, sipping every so often, listening intently. Throughout the times she would come in, I would occasionally offer to buy her her coffee, and she would occasionally allow it. The order was always the same, a white mocha with whip cream. We would sit down and continue to talk about what it was I was planning, and she was always genuinely invested in my words. Even still, it wasn’t long until she started to fade away.
By summer she started coming for coffee less often. Her interest in me began to dwindle, let alone my stories. She would occasionally stop by and ask how I was doing, but she'd never sit and chat as she did in the spring. Most of the time, she would buy a coffee, wave, and walk away. When I would try to approach her, and she would awkwardly reject - and sometimes get a bit irritable at - the motion of buying her a coffee.
By autumn she didn’t even pretend to care that I was there. She didn't even put in the effort to glance in my direction. If anything, it looked as though she tried her best to look the opposite way. The very few times I attempted to approach her, she would tell me she had business elsewhere and quickly made for the door.
For the last time, in the middle of winter, she came to buy her coffee. This was the only time she had visited in the season, and I did not attempt to approach. After purchasing her white mocha, she came and sat across from me at her own accord, as she did back in the spring. All she said to me was an abrupt, "I'm moving away," bittersweet words from a sweet voice. She gave me a weak smile and said she enjoyed my company, and walked out of the coffee shop - my life - for the last time. I watched her as she stood at the side of the road outside the coffee shop, flagging down a taxi with one hand in the pocket of her hoodie. Savoring the last view of her cerulean hair and her fair, silk skin, I watched only silently until I could no longer see the cab in the distance. Sighing, I picked up my pen and began to put the ballpoint to paper. It was going to be a new project, aptly named for the woman that had walked out of my life without reason: The Time We Lost.