The bell above the café door rings, and like always, I glance up.
Not for any real reason. Not anymore.
It's an old habit now—looking for her before I can stop myself.
But it's not her. Just a group of university students with backpacks and exhaustion in their eyes. I offer a tired smile and start pulling shots.
The weather's cold enough now that the windows fog at the corners. There's a softness to everything—coats, scarves, the muted pace of people passing outside. Inside, the quiet is a little heavier today. The kind of day where every sound lands too gently.
It's been four days since the bookstore. Three since the coffee. Two since the last message she didn't send.
And I feel all of them.
I can't say we've grown distant. Because there's no closeness to drift from. Just a pattern we both keep returning to, like a loop we pretend is going somewhere new each time.
When she finally walks in, it's later than usual.
Almost closing.
She looks like she didn't mean to end up here.
Hair pulled back loosely, coat uneven at the shoulder, a novel tucked under one arm—one of Nymphaea's again. She doesn't make eye contact at first. Just walks up to the counter, places the book down, and breathes.
"I didn't think you'd still be open," she says, voice quiet.
"We're always open later on Thursdays," I reply. "You forget?"
She shakes her head. "No. I think I just hoped."
"Hoped?"
"That maybe you weren't," she says. Then adds, too quickly, "So I'd have an excuse to go home instead."
I don't know what to say to that. So I start making her drink.
The same one. Always the same. But tonight I'm slower with the motions, careful with the foam. Like if I get this part right, it'll balance something else out.
She watches me.
And I can feel the question building in her throat. It's not the kind you say out loud. It's the kind you test in silence first, just to see if the air will take it gently.
When I hand her the cup, our fingers don't touch. Not quite. But close enough.
"Rough week?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
"Busy," she says. "Deadlines. People. Life."
I nod like I understand. Maybe I do.
"Do you ever feel," she starts, then stops, staring into her cup, "like your real life is paused? And everything else is just… noise over the silence?"
I look at her then. Really look.
And something in me wants to say: Only when you're not here.
But instead I say, "Yeah. All the time."
She smiles faintly. Not the full kind. Just a curve of knowing.
We don't talk for a while after that.
She reads a few pages. I wipe down the counter. A customer leaves quietly, and the chime above the door sounds too loud in the space they leave behind.
"Who's he to you?" I ask suddenly.
The words fall out like I didn't mean to speak them. But I do.
She blinks, the question catching her off guard. But she doesn't pretend to misunderstand.
"Elian?" she says.
I nod.
She traces the rim of her cup with one finger. "He's just someone I work with. We've known each other a long time."
"That's it?"
She looks up at me, and for a second, something flickers in her eyes. Not guilt. Not panic. Just something fragile. Like truth, half-swallowed.
"That's it," she says softly.
And I believe her.
But that doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt.
Because even when the answer is simple, the feeling doesn't always follow.
I lean back against the counter, arms crossed.
"Do you trust me?" I ask.
The question hangs in the air between us.
She doesn't answer right away. And I don't rush her.
Finally, she says, "I want to."
It's not what I expected.
And somehow, it's more honest than anything else tonight.
She finishes her drink. Leaves the cup in the tray. Doesn't say goodbye.
But as she walks out, she glances back—just once.
And it feels like the kind of look you give someone when you're hoping they'll still be there tomorrow.