He didn't know her. At least, he wasn't supposed to know her.
The man stood three meters away from her, beneath the sign of a small coffee shop whose paint had faded. The wind toyed with strands of the woman's hair that had slipped loose from its tie. There was nothing remarkable about her. She wasn't the kind of beautiful woman who made people stop and turn to look. Her face wasn't carved to perfection. Her movements held none of that effortless grace. Even her smile wasn't the kind that could make an entire room feel brighter.
She was ordinary.
She dressed simply. Her hair was haphazardly tied at the back of her head. She looked like someone more preoccupied with being late than with how she looked.
And yet, the man knew her.
Not just her name. Not just the sound of her voice. He knew how the woman would bite the inside of her cheek whenever she was thinking. He knew she would stir her drink exactly seven times before taking a sip. He knew that after putting her phone in her bag, she would check her bag twice, as though a single notification might have slipped past her notice.
He also knew that whenever she was nervous, the woman's left thumb would rub slowly against the side of her index finger.
And he knew... the woman hated strawberries.
The man lowered his gaze. He had waited years for this moment. Now that it had finally arrived, he found himself wishing it would all be over as soon as possible.
The woman looked up. Their eyes met. For one brief second, the world seemed to grow too quiet.
The man almost smiled. Almost. Because he already knew how all of this would begin.
The woman would look at him for a few seconds longer than necessary. She would frown.
Then, “Excuse me...”
The voice hurt more than he had expected. The woman walked closer.
“I feel like we've met before.”
The man looked at her. There were thousands of things he could say.
Yes. We've met more times than you could imagine. I loved you. I hated you. I lost you. I killed you. And once, I begged the universe never to bring us together again.
But not one of those sentences left his mouth. He only shook his head. “I don't think so.”
The woman looked slightly confused.
“Oh.” An awkward smile appeared on her lips. “Sorry. Maybe I'm mistaken.”
The man wanted to say it was okay. He wanted to tell her she didn't need to apologize. There were too many things he wanted to say, too many nights he had spent imagining the first words he would speak when they finally met again.
But all that made it past his lips were two numb words: “oh, yeah... no problem.”
The woman nodded. Then she turned away.
And that was when the man saw it. The coffee cup in her hand. A small black logo was printed on its side. Directly beneath it, someone had written three simple words in black marker: NO STRAWBERRIES.
The man's breath caught. He closed his eyes. One breath. Two. Three.
He shouldn't have been surprised. He already knew. He had always known. Yet every time he saw those little signs, some stubborn part of him still hoped this time would be different.
The woman turned back.
“Hey.”
The man opened his eyes.
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
The question was simple. He had heard it in so many lives. But only one person had ever asked it in exactly the same way.
The woman. Only the woman.
The man smiled. “I’m fine.”
The woman studied him for a moment. Then she nodded.
“Okay.”
She walked away. The man watched her disappear into the crowd. Both his hands clenched inside his jacket pockets.
Seven years. He had waited seven years.
Not because they had broken up seven years ago. Not because he had lost the woman's phone number. And not because they had ever had a fight.
He had waited because, in their last life, he had made a promise to himself.
If they were given a seventh chance, he would do one thing differently.
He would not approach the woman. He would not make her fall in love. He would not try to save her.
And most importantly, he would not repeat the same mistake.
The man reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Its corners had worn thin from being opened too many times. His handwriting filled the page.
Six names. Six dates. Six places.
Beneath it all was a single sentence he had written seven years ago. The sentence that had kept him alive until now: This time, don't fall in love with her.
The paper trembled between his fingers. Because for the first time in six lives, he began to wonder whether he had misunderstood everything all along.
Maybe the problem wasn't that he had failed to save the woman.
Maybe... he was the reason the woman always died.