Zoey didn't go to the café the next day.
Not because she didn't want to. But because she knew if she saw him again, she might say too much—or worse, say nothing at all.
She had never been good at in-betweens.
The walk home from her office felt longer, her phone heavier in her pocket with the message she didn't send. It was always like this now: drafting conversations in her head, deleting them before they made it to the screen. Something about Akash made her feel like a coward, not because he was intimidating, but because he wasn't.
Because he looked at her like she wasn't someone to be wary of. And that, somehow, made her want to run more than anything else.
She dropped her bag on the floor of her apartment, kicked off her shoes, and let the silence rush in. It welcomed her like an old friend. Familiar. Uncomplicated.
She opened her laptop and stared at the blinking cursor.
The manuscript waited—half-finished, overthought, underloved.
A scene she couldn't finish because the words she needed no longer belonged to her. They belonged to him now.
It had been easier before she'd met Akash. Before he made her laugh at things she didn't write. Before he made her feel like Nymphaea wasn't just a voice she invented to survive the loneliness.
Now the name sat like a secret burning holes in her pockets.
And then there was Elian.
She hadn't asked him to show up that day.
And she certainly hadn't asked for the way Akash looked at her after.
Not angry. Just… quiet.
That kind of silence was worse than yelling. Because it wasn't about what he thought. It was about what he was afraid to ask.
The truth was, she didn't owe Akash anything. Not an explanation. Not her history. Not her name.
But the truth also was… she wanted to.
She wanted to sit across from him and say, I wrote that.
Not for the praise. Not for the reaction. But because he read her without knowing it was her, and it still meant something. Maybe everything.
And yet, when she thought of saying it aloud, the words felt clumsy. Like trying to catch fog with bare hands.
She closed the laptop.
Walked to the mirror.
And for a long minute, just looked.
Black hair loose around her shoulders. Eyes that never quite gave themselves away. A mouth that had learned to smile without promises.
She pressed a hand to her chest and whispered like it might echo back something steady: "I don't want to lose this."
Not him. Not the fragile thing blooming between them.
But she could feel it already—the slow undoing of something that had barely begun. Pulled apart not by lies, but by omission. Her silence. His restraint.
She grabbed her coat and keys.
Didn't think. Just moved.
⸻
The bookstore wasn't crowded.
Which was both a relief and a disappointment.
She didn't expect to see him there, but she hoped anyway.
She drifted to the fiction aisle. Ran her fingers along the spines. Not looking for anything in particular—just waiting for something to pull her in.
Then she saw it.
Her own book.
Petals and Smoke. The one she always pretended wasn't hers in public. The one Akash said felt "too honest to be fiction."
She picked it up. Flipped to the dedication.
"To the strangers who read between the lines—and the one who saw me."
She hadn't known who that line was for when she wrote it.
Now she did.
Zoey tucked the book under her arm, checked out quietly, and stepped back into the night.
The cold air bit her cheeks, and the lights of the street bled into the pavement.
Maybe tomorrow, she'd go back to the café.
Maybe tomorrow, she'd say something she couldn't take back.
But not tonight.
Tonight, she just needed to walk. To feel her own footsteps and remember who she was before she started wanting things again.
Wanting him.
The weight of the book in her hands felt heavier than it should.
But she held onto it anyway.
Because sometimes, the only way out of silence was to carry it until you were ready to speak.