This is how it happens.

You're sitting in the cafe at Barnes & Noble - because you've decided it's time to live some of your life outside of your apartment, even if it means you're only doing the same things you'd be doing if you were at home alone. So this has become your personal version of a Friday night date; you're just dating yourself, that's all.

For about three or four weeks now, you've sat at the same table, reading whatever book has caught your eye that evening. (Actually, because books are your first love, there are more than a few in the plastic bag on the table - who can pick out just one to take home?)

You're not really aware of the other people browsing in the store or talking softly in the cafe, which is part of the problem - you're out in the world, but not quite, because you're so used to being by yourself that you'd never even notice if anyone looked twice at you.

Then, one night, someone comes over to your table. He stands there for a few seconds, until you slowly become aware of him and glance up.

"I think I know you," he says.

You're puzzled a bit, looking up at him. He's on the tall side, with hair that's too dark to be called medium brown, too light to be called dark brown, and just long enough to give you something to run your fingers through. His eyes are hazel, and you notice his lashes frame them in such a way as to soften them into something both earnest and sexy at the same time. He's wearing jeans and a simple black T-shirt, which really isn't so simple when you sense a hint of muscle definition beneath it, and just enough of a ripple in his arms to where you know he takes care of himself, but isn't obsessed with working out.

You want him to turn around so you can check out the rear view. And you know you've never met him before in your life, because there's absolutely no way you would have forgotten.

You shake your head a little, smiling though, uncertain of why he thinks he knows you. Before you can ask, he says, "Your real name is Shelley, but online, you use the nickname 'Girlie' - right?"

Now you're more than just a little freaked out. This is the first time your real life has collided with your online world, and it is more than just weird, it's surreal.

He sees the hesitation in your eyes, and quickly reassures you that he isn't a stalker or an obsessed fan - and then grimaces in a way that suggests he's remembering your warning.

You laugh then, and put down your book to say, "Okay, so you 'know me' from the website," while making those silly little quotes in the air when you say it. Then you feel a little stupid and warmth creeps up your face.

"Could I join you?" he asks, and again, you hesitate. But he smiles, and it is a warm smile, and so you return it, glancing around at the other people in the store as if to reassure yourself that you're safe here, and say, "Sure. Okay."

And thus the conversation begins, first centered around your site and how he discovered it (with a Google search for "writings on depression" when he was dating a girl who suffered from it), and this rings true to you because you've received tons of e-mail from strangers who found that same entry and identified with it in some way. From there, he found your journal, and he's read every single entry from the beginning.

The smile dims a little on your face, remembering what most of those entries contained, and you're a little embarrassed to be facing a stranger who knows more about your greatest weakness than your friends and family do.

"He's an ass, you know."

At first, that rankles a bit. Your initial instinct is, stupidly enough, to defend the person you know he's referring to.

"Yes, well - he's pretty much the reason the site exists at all - as well as the reason I write less often now."

"That's a shame. You probably need someone else to write about."

He grins, and you realize he's flirting, and you shake your head a little again. This is all just too bizarre.

Sensing your discomfort, he leans back in his chair, as if to give you a little space to think about what he said.

Instead, you change the subject, asking him about himself, and the awkwardness of the moment passes, until you finally look at your watch and realize two hours of conversation have flown by in a matter of minutes. You tell him that you have to leave, that your cat is probably pacing by the front window, worried about you. And you both laugh at the image of a maternal cat looking after an adult woman.

The laughter dies down into quiet, and after a few long heartbeats of this silence, he looks directly into your eyes and asks if he could give you a call sometime.

You're flustered again. Even though you have a pen and probably some paper in your purse, you ask him if he has anything to write with, and of course, he doesn't. So he gets up and borrows a pen from the cashier, and writes your number down on the receipt from his own book purchase, then carefully folds it up, taking out his wallet and tucking the slip of paper away inside the leather.

He remembers to return the pen, and you remember to check out the rear view. You grin, and compose your face before he turns back around.

He offers to walk you to your car, and you say "No, but thanks very much for the offer", visions of a nice man turned maniac running through your safety-conscious mind. "And besides, I have a truck, remember?" You're just teasing him, but it feels nice to be playful that way again with someone you're finally beginning to realize you're genuinely attracted to.

As you drive home, you notice your face hurts from laughing and smiling so much all evening. It hasn't hurt like that in a long time, and you take your hands off the wheel for a moment to put them both up and over your cheeks, feeling the fullness and warmth in them, the happy little ache in their curves.

You know you're acting schoolgirl-silly, but it's just the beginning - because he's called you every single day since that Friday night two weeks ago, and the smiling and the laughter haven't stopped yet.

You're too afraid to hope, so you tell yourself nothing will come of this at all. It's just a little diversion from your boring life, a distraction from the pain you haven't been able to leave behind. But you can't stop that little voice from whispering:

"Maybe. Just maybe..."