The evening wind curled around the buildings like a whisper of things unspoken. Lights blinked through the fog, casting soft reflections on the rain-slicked streets. I sat at our usual spot, the back corner of the café, now too familiar. The candle between us flickered uncertainly, as if it knew the storm was close.
She arrived quietly, as always. Coat buttoned too high, eyes scanning for something invisible—something still hunting her, even in peace. Her fingers trembled slightly when she unwrapped the scarf.
“Still raining,” I said.
She nodded.
The silence between us wasn’t tense. It was thick with what we weren’t saying. Like our words hovered in the air, waiting for the right moment to land.
Then—
“You said once that grief becomes quieter,” she whispered. “But it doesn’t. It just hides.”
I didn’t ask her what had triggered that. I could see it in her face—the glint of glassy pain that never quite dried. And yet, there was something new in her tonight. A strange steadiness. The kind you only get after standing too long in a storm.
She looked out the window. “My father used to hum to me when I was sick. I hated his voice… but when he died, that’s all I could hear.”
Something tightened in my throat. She hadn’t spoken about him before. Not even once.
“Did you… forgive him?” I asked carefully.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe that’s the wrong question. Maybe the question is… did I ever stop wanting him to be someone else?”
I leaned back, thinking. The rain tapped harder against the windows.
Another voice joined the space—Samir, the barista, who had watched this slow, strange friendship of ours bloom over weeks. He dropped two cups with a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes.
“On the house,” he said. “You two look like you’re about to solve the meaning of life.”
Amahle smiled faintly. “Maybe we are.”
Samir hesitated, then leaned against the back wall, crossing his arms. “You know, I always thought people only came here for the coffee. But lately… I think some of them come because they don’t know where else to be.”
“Is that why you stay?” I asked him.
He chuckled. “No. I stay because I’m paid.”
That broke the tension. We laughed—Amahle, too, though hers was a broken thing, like wind chimes in a storm. Still, it was laughter.
She turned back to me, more open now. “You told me something weeks ago. That sometimes… love feels like waiting.”
I blinked. “I said that?”
“You did. And you were right.”
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on mine. “But love also feels like knowing someone’s waiting—even when you walk away.”
There it was. The storm had passed, and in its place—clarity. Her eyes no longer held the questions they once did. Instead, they held answers I hadn’t expected.
“I thought,” I began, unsure of the ground beneath my words, “that you weren’t ready.”
“I wasn’t,” she said plainly. “But then you didn’t leave.”
The café’s warmth suddenly felt too much, like the world had pressed close to listen.
“I kept waiting for you to vanish. To decide I was too much. Too fractured. And you didn’t. You just… kept showing up.”
“You didn’t need fixing,” I said. “Just someone to see the pieces and not flinch.”
She looked down, tracing the rim of her cup. “And now?”
“And now,” I said, my voice low, “I don’t want to wait anymore.”
The world narrowed to that table. The candle. Her breath. Mine.
She reached across slowly, fingers brushing mine. No grand gestures. Just touch. Real, solid, quiet.
“I want to stop hiding,” she said. “From him. From the past. From… myself.”
My hand tightened around hers.
From the kitchen, we could hear the faint clang of dishes and Samir humming something familiar. Life outside us kept moving—but in that moment, everything else was background.
“I don’t have all the right words,” she murmured. “But if this—whatever this is between us—if it means stepping into light again… I want that.”
“Even if it hurts sometimes?” I asked.
She nodded. “Even then.”
And that was how we began—not with fireworks, not with perfect sentences. But with a promise spoken between the cracks.
The storm outside had faded to drizzle. Streetlights reflected against puddles like fractured constellations. Samir turned off the “Open” sign, locking the door with a knowing smile.
Amahle and I remained. Two cups. One candle. And no more silence.
The quiet café, once her refuge, had become our beginning. Not because it offered escape—but because, somewhere between the bitterness of coffee and the softness of shared breath, she had chosen to stay.
And so had I.
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