Zoey stood across the street from the café for a long time before she went in.
A quiet drizzle had started, soft and barely there, the kind that didn't soak you but stayed long enough to whisper against your skin. She watched the windows fog gently, the glass blurring just enough to make the inside feel like a different world.
Akash was there. She could make out his silhouette behind the counter.
Still moving like someone who didn't know he was being watched.
Still beautiful in a way that crept up on you.
She exhaled, rubbed her hands together, then crossed the street before she could think herself out of it.
The bell above the door chimed.
He looked up. Eyes meeting hers like they hadn't for what felt like years, even if it had only been days.
Something in his posture shifted — not in surprise, but in readiness. Like he'd been expecting this moment eventually, just not today.
Zoey offered a soft, cautious smile.
"Hey," she said.
His voice was quiet. "Hey."
She approached the counter slowly, folding her coat over one arm. Everything in the café looked the same — warm lights, worn wood, the faint scent of cinnamon and espresso lingering in the air — but she didn't feel the same in it.
She didn't feel sure.
"I'll take the usual," she said, like it was any other day.
He nodded. His movements behind the machine were fluid, practiced. Too practiced.
She watched his hands as he tamped the grounds, pulled the shot, frothed the milk. Watched them because it was easier than watching his eyes.
When he placed the cup down, she didn't reach for it.
"I, um…" She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "That guy. Elian."
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. But he didn't speak.
"He's not my boyfriend," she said.
Silence, thick and humming.
"I didn't think you'd noticed," she added.
His gaze finally met hers. Steady. Guarded. "You came in with him. You were laughing. Close."
Zoey gave a dry, rueful laugh. "We've known each other since we were kids. He's like family. Grew up next door. Calls my mom more than I do."
Akash blinked. Slowly. Like recalibrating.
"You don't owe me that explanation," he said, but his voice had softened.
"I know," she replied. "That's why I wanted to give it."
Something flickered in his eyes, too fast to name.
She took her cup and sat down by the window. The one she always gravitated toward. The one that felt like it remembered her.
Outside, the drizzle turned to rain.
She opened a book. Not hers. Just something familiar. Words that didn't weigh too much.
Akash didn't come over.
But he glanced at her sometimes, and that was enough.
⸻
Thirty minutes passed.
She didn't read much. Mostly stared at the page and listened to the clink of cups and spoons behind the counter.
The low murmur of customers.
The quiet steadiness of the world not falling apart.
Then, just before she left, he came over. A cloth in one hand, pretending to wipe the already-clean tables.
"You don't like misunderstandings, do you?" he asked, not looking directly at her.
She smiled softly. "Not the kind that stay quiet."
He nodded. "He seemed like someone important."
"He is," she said. "But not in that way."
Akash nodded again. Then finally looked at her.
"I don't want to assume anymore," he said.
Zoey tilted her head. "Then don't."
Another silence. This one gentler.
When she stood to leave, she hesitated before putting her coat back on.
"I wasn't sure if I should come today," she admitted.
"I'm glad you did."
Simple words. Honest.
They hovered between them, light and heavy at the same time.
Zoey walked to the door, hand on the frame.
She looked back once.
He was still standing there, watching her.
This time, she didn't look away first.
⸻
She didn't go home right away.
Instead, she wandered into a quiet bookstore a few blocks down. The kind with handwritten signs and creaky wooden floors. Her kind of place.
She browsed aimlessly.
Then found herself standing in front of the "Literary Fiction" shelf.
Her own book stared back at her.
She didn't reach for it. Didn't need to.
She knew every word in it.
But she let her fingers brush the spine anyway, just for the feeling of being real.
The dedication echoed in her mind:
"To the strangers who read between the lines — and the one who saw me."
For a long time, she didn't know who she meant.
Now, maybe she did.
Maybe.
She left the store without buying anything.
But something inside her felt lighter.
Not because the truth was out. But because one untruth wasn't hanging over her anymore.
Sometimes, that was enough.
For now.