Only On Tuesday.

## **We Only Met on Tuesdays**

**By Adil Khan (optional)**

*Genre: Romance | Word Count: \~1,050 | Tone: Quiet, emotional, mysterious*

I first met Evelyn on a Tuesday.

Not that I was keeping track back then—but looking back, it was always Tuesday. Rain or shine, warm or cold, even when I switched jobs or moved apartments—it was Tuesday.

She sat by the window at the same little cafe on Millstone Avenue. The one with the cracked blue tiles and old jazz records on the walls. I was there for coffee, nothing more. But when I glanced up from my book, she was already looking at me.

“Mind if I sit here?” she asked, even though the cafe was nearly empty.

I nodded, and that was it. That’s how it began.

She always wore something grey. A sweater, a scarf, a coat. Nothing flashy. Her voice was soft, like someone who didn’t speak unless it mattered. I liked that about her.

Our conversations were light at first. Books. Weather. What kind of tea she liked. She said chamomile helped her sleep. I joked that sleep was overrated. She didn’t laugh exactly, but her eyes brightened a little. That was enough.

The next Tuesday, she was there again. Same seat. Same window.

I never asked for her number. And she never offered. Somehow, we both understood: Tuesdays were enough.

Over the months, it became our rhythm. Tuesdays meant two chairs by the window, the hush of music, and the clink of teaspoons. No promises, no labels, just time that felt untouched by everything else.

But there were odd things, too. She never talked about family or work. I didn’t pry. I didn’t want to ruin what we had by dragging in the outside world.

Once, I asked what she did the rest of the week.

“I wait,” she said. “And walk. I like walking.”

That was all.

After about six months of Tuesdays, I told her I wished we could meet on other days. Saturdays maybe. Go to the museum, see the river. Her expression changed.

“Tuesdays are safe,” she said quietly.

I didn’t understand what she meant. But I didn’t push it.

Then one Tuesday, she didn’t come.

I waited two hours, rereading the same sentence in my book a hundred times. I looked out the window until my eyes hurt. But she didn’t come.

The next Tuesday, she was back, just like nothing had happened.

“I was sick,” she said.

But she didn’t look sick. She looked tired, like someone who had been running from something.

“Do you want to stop meeting?” I asked. “If this isn’t good for you—”

She reached across the table and put her hand over mine. “No. This is the only thing that’s real.”

Her fingers were cold. I noticed that for the first time.

One day, I stayed up late, thinking about her. Something didn’t add up. How did I know nothing about her after all this time? I typed her name into the internet. "Evelyn," and the last name she once mentioned by accident.

I found it.

A local article. Dated five years ago.

**"Young Woman Disappears During Autumn Storm. Family Still Searching."**

Her photo stared back at me. Same grey coat. Same eyes.

It couldn’t be. I saw her every week.

The next Tuesday, I went to the cafe early. I sat in the corner instead of our usual spot. When she walked in, the barista didn’t greet her, didn’t even look up. She ordered nothing. Sat down. Waited.

I watched for a while before walking over.

“You’re not real,” I said quietly.

She looked up, startled. Hurt, even. “That’s not fair.”

“Then what are you?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I only exist on Tuesdays. Here. With you.”

I sat across from her, trying to understand.

“Maybe I’m a memory. Maybe you needed me. Or maybe... I needed you.”

Tears welled in her eyes. I reached out to hold her hand, but this time... I couldn’t. My hand passed through hers like air.

She looked down, shaking.

“This is the last Tuesday,” she whispered. “You’re starting to forget.”

The next week, the window seat was empty. So was the next. And the next.

Eventually, I stopped going.

Years passed. I moved. Grew older. Fell in love again. But every now and then, on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, I’d catch a glimpse of grey by a cafe window. And I’d remember.

She only existed on Tuesdays.

And maybe, somehow, she still does.