Akash didn't expect her to show up today.
He told himself that twice while buttoning his shirt, once while locking the café's front door behind him, and again while adjusting the napkin holder for no real reason other than needing something to do with his hands.
But hope has a cruel habit of arriving before logic does.
He still checked the door every time the bell rang.
Still heard her laugh in the ghost of someone else's voice.
The shift passed slower than usual, like time had forgotten how to walk. By late afternoon, the light bleeding through the windows had that soft gray tint that made everything feel distant, like a memory trying to fade.
He made himself a cup of coffee he didn't need. Bitter. Strong. No milk.
And sat by the window.
The same one she used to claim when she didn't want to be noticed but always was.
His phone buzzed once. Then went still.
Not her.
He scrolled without looking. The news. Old messages. A bookmarked passage from a novel he was rereading just to feel less alone.
Nymphaea's words again.
"Some silences are shaped like people we haven't met yet. Others sound like the people we're afraid to lose."
— Petals and Smoke
He closed the app. Closed his eyes.
And for a second, he let himself think about what it would mean if she didn't come back.
Not just to the café. But into the space they'd slowly carved between conversations and glances and almosts.
Maybe she was done.
Maybe Elian wasn't just someone she worked with.
Maybe he was the one who got to hold her stories at night.
Maybe—
The bell rang.
Akash didn't move at first.
Then he looked.
It wasn't her.
Just a delivery guy with the wrong receipt and the right amount of noise to break something fragile in him.
He stood up, muttered a quick thanks, and walked to the back.
He couldn't sit there any longer.
The storeroom was quiet and colder than it should've been. The boxes stacked neatly, the shelves labeled. Everything in its place.
Except his thoughts.
They wandered back to her. Always to her.
To the way her eyes lingered on a page like it was speaking only to her. To the way she held her cup with both hands, as if it might slip from her fingers if she let go.
To the pause in her voice when she said, "I want to."
He leaned against the wall, exhaled slowly.
"Zoey," he whispered. Just to hear the name aloud.
It didn't echo.
Didn't need to.
It already lived inside the quiet.
⸻
Later, after closing, he walked the long way home.
The bookstore was still open.
He didn't plan to stop. His feet just carried him there.
The door gave its soft chime, and the scent of paper and pinewood ink washed over him like a forgotten comfort.
He drifted through the aisles, not looking for anything.
And then he saw her.
Not in person.
On the shelf.
Her book.
Petals and Smoke.
The same one she read in the café. The same one she held like a shield and a secret.
He picked it up.
Turned to the dedication page.
"To the strangers who read between the lines—and the one who saw me."
He stared at it for a long time.
And something in his chest cracked open just a little.
Not all the way.
Just enough to wonder.
Just enough to ask, What if?