The doorbell rings softly as I push the café door open, stepping into the warm embrace of the familiar space. The scent of freshly brewed coffee hits me first, like a comforting blanket, and I let out a quiet sigh. It's strange how something so simple can bring so much comfort. The hustle and bustle of the café is a stark contrast to the quiet that lingers in my mind.
I see him immediately. His figure is easy to spot in the crowd, moving between tables, the steady rhythm of his actions familiar, almost like a melody. He doesn't notice me at first, his back to me as he arranges cups on the counter. I almost hesitate. Every time I come here, it's the same—this strange pull between wanting to speak and the urge to stay silent. But today feels different, heavier somehow.
I approach the counter, keeping my movements deliberate, measured. As I step closer, he looks up, and his gaze catches mine almost instantly. That look—sharp, direct, but there's something else in it today. It's like he's waiting for something, unsure, just as I am.
"Back again?" he says, his voice slightly deeper than usual, laced with something that's hard to place. It's as if the usual indifference he wears has cracked, if only for a moment.
I smile, a small, almost knowing smile. "I guess so," I reply, keeping my voice light, even though the words feel weighted. I don't know why I say that. It's not just about the coffee. It never has been. But I don't say it out loud.
I order a cappuccino, my usual, watching as he begins to prepare it. His movements are precise, but there's a hint of distraction in the way he handles the cup, like he's somewhere else, thinking about something he doesn't want to acknowledge. I wonder if he feels it too—the odd tension between us, the silent understanding that has built up over the last few weeks. I wonder if he's aware of how much is left unsaid between us, how many things we both carefully leave unspoken.
The quiet hum of the espresso machine fills the silence between us. My fingers brush the edge of my book, the one I've been carrying around for days now, the one I've barely had time to read. My thumb traces the cover absently, but my thoughts are elsewhere, focused entirely on the man before me. He doesn't say anything more as he prepares my order, his face focused, lips pressed in concentration. For a moment, I wonder if he even remembers the last conversation we had.
He finishes the cappuccino and sets it down in front of me, his fingers lingering for just a split second longer than necessary. I feel a small jolt in my chest at the brief contact, but I don't let it show. Instead, I take the cup, my fingers brushing his as I pick it up. His gaze flickers briefly, and I catch the faintest hint of something there.
"Thanks," I say, and the words feel strange in my mouth, too loaded for something so simple. But they're all I have.
He nods, his eyes flickering to mine for a moment, then back to the machine, almost like he's trying to avoid something. The weight of the silence between us settles again. I can feel it, thick and heavy, pressing down on both of us, but neither of us seems ready to break it.
I glance at the book in my hands again, trying to focus on the pages, trying to distract myself from the way my heart is beating a little faster than usual. There's something in the air tonight—something fragile, delicate, like the calm before a storm. He's here, so close, and yet there's a distance between us that feels insurmountable. I wonder if he feels it too.
He's looking at me again, but not in the way he usually does. There's something different, a shift in his gaze, something deeper. Maybe I'm imagining it, but I don't think so. His eyes linger on me just a moment too long, his expression unreadable.
"I've been thinking about something you said," I offer, almost without thinking. It's not the plan I had when I walked in, but the words slip out anyway.
His brow furrows slightly, a flash of curiosity in his gaze. "What did I say?"
I hesitate, unsure of how to phrase it. He doesn't know, not really, how much weight his words carried. How they've stayed with me, hanging in the air, like unfinished sentences waiting for their conclusion. "You said something about books fading away." I pause, letting the words sink in. "I think maybe you were wrong."
He looks surprised, almost confused, like he wasn't expecting this shift in the conversation. "Wrong?" he echoes, his voice tinged with the quiet disbelief of someone who doesn't quite understand what's happening.
I nod slowly, the words coming out in a whisper, as though I'm sharing a secret with him. "Not everything fades," I say, meeting his gaze, hoping he understands. "Some things stay with you, even when you don't realize it."
The words are heavy, too heavy for the casual conversation I'm trying to have, but they feel right. They feel true, and maybe for the first time in a while, I can say them out loud without worrying about what will happen next.
There's a long pause. His eyes are intense, focused entirely on me, and I can see the question in them—the unspoken curiosity, the desire to understand something that's just beyond reach. But he doesn't ask. Not yet.
Instead, he breaks the silence, his voice low, careful. "Do you think… that's true?"
I nod, and for a moment, I almost wish I could tell him everything. About the books, about what I've been writing, about who I really am. But something holds me back. I'm not ready yet. Not when I can still feel the weight of the past hanging over me.
"I think some things have a way of lingering," I say, my voice steady, though my insides are anything but. "And sometimes, you can't help but wonder if they're meant to."
He's still staring at me, like he's trying to find the meaning behind my words, trying to piece together something that doesn't quite make sense. But it's okay. He doesn't have to understand just yet.
"I should go," I say abruptly, feeling the need to leave before I say too much. Before I let the words slip out that I know I'm not ready to share.
I pick up my book again, fingers brushing the pages as I prepare to leave. But something makes me pause. I look at him, just for a second longer. I catch the flicker of something in his eyes—something I don't have the words for.
"Maybe I'll see you when you figure it out," I say softly, the words more for myself than for him, but I leave them hanging in the air anyway.
And then, without waiting for a reply, I turn and walk away, the doorbell chiming softly behind me. I feel his gaze on me as I leave, but I don't look back. Not yet.