The café breathes differently when she's not in it.
It's not quieter, exactly. The espresso machine still hisses, the grinder still growls, and the usual background hum of conversation clings to the walls. But the space she usually occupies—that small table by the window—feels untouched today. Like the sunlight forgot where to fall.
She hasn't come back since that morning.
Three days.
Which is a long time when you've gotten used to someone being a rhythm in your day. When their absence starts to echo louder than their presence ever did.
I find myself glancing at the door too often. Cleaning the same cup twice. Checking the milk frother like I don't know it's fine. I catch myself doing it, and I don't stop.
Because if I stop, I have to think.
And when I think, I remember the way she smiled—with someone else standing close enough to deserve it.
I don't know what it is exactly that's bothering me. It's not like she owed me anything. She never made promises. Never hinted at more. And yet…
The worst kind of confusion is the one that feels like jealousy but isn't quite allowed to be.
Her drink is still on the special board. I haven't had the heart to erase it.
Late in the afternoon, I'm restocking napkins when someone brushes past me. I look up, and there she is.
No fanfare. No explanation. Just her.
Zoey Noctelle.
Wearing that same black coat. Hair tucked behind one ear. Eyes unreadable.
"You're back," I say, and it sounds more like an accusation than a greeting.
"I was never gone," she replies. "Just… somewhere else."
She sits at the usual table without waiting for an invitation.
I make her drink without asking.
We don't speak as I set it down. She murmurs a soft thank you, and then we sit, surrounded by the small sounds of the café—people who don't matter, cups that don't care.
"I've been working a lot," she says after a while, stirring her coffee like it's done something wrong. "Deadlines."
"Must be nice," I say. "Having someone to bring you coffee when you're busy."
She looks up sharply. "What?"
"That guy. From the other day. Seemed close."
There's a pause. Not long. Not dramatic. Just the kind that lasts exactly enough to hurt.
"He's just someone I know," she says. Her voice is calm, but her grip on the cup tightens. "Coworker."
That word sits between us, thin and vague. Not a lie. Not a truth. Just a placeholder.
"Right," I say. I don't press. Because I'm not supposed to. Because we've never defined the rules of this—whatever this is.
And maybe that's the problem.
"I didn't think you'd care," she says, quieter now. There's something raw in the way she avoids my eyes. "We've never talked about that kind of thing."
"I don't," I lie. "Care, I mean."
She nods, but something in her mouth twitches like she almost smiled and then didn't.
"It's just… easier sometimes," she says. "Letting people think what they want."
"Like me?" I ask.
She meets my gaze now. "Maybe."
We sit in that silence again—the one that's almost familiar. But this time, it feels different. It feels like we're both pretending we're okay with something neither of us is okay with.
Her cup is still half full when she stands to leave.
"You're not finishing it?"
She shrugs. "It's a little bitter today."
I watch her walk out. And I wonder what she meant by that.