crashing quietly | c.l.

cara

If you're expecting some kind of tragic, poetic story about how I ended up here—running a tiny café in Monaco named Soleil—don't.

Well.
Not yet, anyway.

Let's just say it involved a mildly spectacular breakup, one apartment that didn't feel like mine anymore, and a moment on a train platform where I realized I hadn't taken a proper breath in months.

You know. The usual.

And before you ask—yes, I know Soleil means sun in French.
Yes, I know that's ironic.
And yes, people comment on it constantly, like they've discovered the greatest plot twist of the decade.

"But you're so moody!"
"You look like you belong in a noir film, not a place called Soleil!"

Thank you, Brenda. Very original.

The thing is, I didn't name the café because I'm sunshine.
I named it because I needed it.

After the rain. After the noise. After someone made me feel like I was too much and not enough all at once—I wanted to build something that felt warm.

Even if I wasn't, at the time.

Especially if I wasn't.

So I made Soleil.
A place with chipped mugs, secondhand furniture, and espresso that doesn't ask questions.
A place that opens early, closes late, and stays quiet in all the right ways.

It's not fancy.
It's not popular.
It's not even that profitable, if I'm honest.

But it's mine.

And one rainy afternoon, a man walked in with a helmet, a hoodie, and a whole lot of silence.
And that's when things got... complicated.

But we'll get there.

For now—welcome to Soleil.

Take a seat. Don't touch the espresso machine.

//

charles

Look, I didn't mean to find the place.

It wasn't some dramatic escape plan. No one handed me a handwritten flyer and whispered "this café will save your soul."

I was just walking. Hoodie up. Head down. Helmet in hand.
Trying to disappear for five minutes in a city that knows me too well.

And then I saw it—this crooked little place tucked between two buildings like it was trying not to be seen. No branding. No people with laptops pretending to work. Just... light. And the smell of burnt sugar and actual coffee.

It didn't feel like Monaco.

So I went in.

I didn't know it was hers then.
Didn't know she'd look at me like I was just some guy ruining her floor with wet shoes.
Didn't know I'd keep coming back.
Didn't know I'd start planning my mornings around the sound of her voice saying "no, you can't charge your phone here."

She didn't know who I was.
Which, if you've lived in my world for more than five minutes, is rarer than sleep.

And the second I realized that?
I stayed.

Because in her world, I was just C.
Just a man with too many thoughts and not enough words.

And maybe that's what I needed.

Or maybe I was just stupid.

And now I'm here.
Sitting in the same corner every day. Pretending the coffee tastes different when she makes it.
Pretending I'm not hoping she'll talk to me first.

//

first looks???
comment and vote please
love u - c