It won’t happen like it does in the movies, supported by spine-tingling music over a montage of moments we once spent together. Our eyes won’t be pulled together like magnets from across the room in a crowded cafe. But even if that was to happen, there would be interruptions and noise and people blocking our view. Teacups would clatter, a baby might cry, the door would constantly be opening, letting in the cold December air. There would be no warmth or peace. You wouldn’t hear my heart thudding in my chest as I look at you in the exact same way I used to, all wide-eyed and serious, but gentle, too. It won’t happen how I used to picture it. There won’t be perfect weather or a dramatic narration. But we will notice each other, and you will get up from your table, walk across the room to mine, lean down toward me and say hello. And you will smile. No, wait. You will smirk. And it will be lazy, crooked, mysterious, and not really there at all. And that will be it. After years and years of wondering how it will happen, where it will take place, what you will be wearing, and who will be around… there it is. We’ll order more coffee, talk about our families, tell exciting stories, laugh about our old friends, moan about the winter, and forget about anyone else in the room. And it will feel so comfortable and easy and beautiful, because we’ve been there before. It will be magnificent. Not what I had pictured, but something greater.