The sky had turned a muddled gray, the kind that blurred the skyline and whispered secrets through cracks in the windowpanes. The café was unusually quiet for a Thursday. Even the usual hum of the espresso machine felt muted, as if it too had been pulled into the hush that hung over the room like fog.
She sat at her usual spot — back booth, left corner, near the window where the lace curtain swayed slightly in the breeze. Her fingers circled the rim of a warm porcelain cup, not drinking, just... thinking. Observing. Rehearsing the words she might never say aloud.
Maybe I shouldn’t have come today.
But she was already there. And so was he.
Across the room, he stood near the barista counter, pretending to read the specials board. His hand reached up to scratch his chin, but it was a nervous tic. His eyes weren’t reading anything. They were watching someone — someone who wasn’t watching back.
A pause in the stillness. A moment where everything held its breath.
She finally looked up, just as he turned away. Their eyes didn’t meet. They almost did. Almost.
He’s avoiding me.15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUzKorGoFfP
She’s ignoring me.15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRZVlDyxrgn
They still don’t know about me.
The third figure, the silent observer, tucked into a seat not far from either of them, flipped a worn notebook shut. They’d been scribbling for nearly twenty minutes — not poetry, not stories. Just observations. Names weren’t written down, only moments.
The girl. The boy. And the something between them.
She remembered their last conversation like a song stuck on loop.
"Do you ever feel like you’re walking toward someone but they’re walking away at the same time?" she’d asked, her voice trembling more than she wanted to admit.
He had said nothing. Just watched her. Then asked, “Do you mean me?”
She hadn’t answered. Silence had done the talking.15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRu7iuN07rD
And now silence sat beside her again, sipping her coffee.
Why is he still coming here?15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfACBH9LDih
Does he not understand that every time I see him, I lose a little more of myself?
He looked at her again, this time from the reflection in the glass refrigerator door. It was the only way he could without feeling like a trespasser in her peace.
She hadn’t worn her hair like that before. A loose braid, tucked over her shoulder, strands slipping free like untold truths. He remembered the feel of her hair between his fingers once, late evening, laughter echoing from the street as they sat under the awning during rain.
Back when she smiled like she believed in it.
He hadn’t told her why he stopped replying to her messages. He thought silence would be cleaner than explanation.
He was wrong.
The observer took another sip of tea, scribbled a phrase:15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡj60QMIjO0O
“Some ghosts walk in broad daylight.”
They weren't a stranger to either of them. Not entirely.
She had confided once, in a moment of crumbling certainty: “Sometimes I feel like I’m auditioning for someone else’s idea of love.”
And he? He had said, late one night while drying coffee mugs, “You can’t fix someone by becoming their reason to heal.”
Both believed they were the wrong kind of broken.15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2pptBMoMG9
Both still looked for healing in each other’s eyes.
Then, suddenly, movement.
She stood up, knocking her spoon to the floor. The sound cracked the quiet like glass. Heads turned. He froze.
She didn’t apologize. She just looked at him.
Not at the floor. Not at the window.
At him.
And it was like the room had been holding a breath for weeks and just finally exhaled.
“I didn’t come here to see you,” she said, voice barely audible.
He stepped forward anyway. “I know. But I came hoping you would.”
The observer’s pen stopped mid-word.
Finally.
She shook her head. “You don’t get to do that. Not anymore.”
“I’m not trying to fix it.”15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbxuAKjcOfO
“Then what are you doing here?”15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡin9KSZGGfJ
“Looking for the truth in the aftermath.”
Silence again. But it was a different kind now. One that trembled with possibilities.
Outside, the rain started — soft, hesitant.
Inside, the air cracked open.
She turned to leave.
He didn’t follow. Not this time.
Later, the observer approached the counter to pay.
The barista leaned in. “You always sit here, scribbling. You a writer or something?”
The observer smiled faintly. “Not a writer. Just someone who listens.”
But the story wasn’t over. Not even close.
Because three days later, the girl came back.
And this time... she wasn’t alone.
And neither was the boy.
And the café, once again, found itself caught between heartbeats, waiting for someone to say the thing no one dared to speak.
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