Zoey watched the steam curl from her mug, barely hearing the low hum of the café around her. The ceramic felt warm in her hands, grounding her in a moment she was trying not to ruin.
She hadn't planned on seeing Akash today. Or talking this much. Or feeling the quiet ache in her chest every time he almost asked the question she wasn't ready to answer.
The one that sat between them like a dog-eared page no one turned.
Nymphaea.
She should've known that name wouldn't be invisible forever.
There'd been a flicker in his voice when he'd read it out loud—something curious, something close. And for a split second, she had imagined telling him.
That the woman who wrote those words—the ones he said felt brave—was the same one sitting across from him, hiding behind a cardigan and coffee and a too-careful smile.
But then she remembered the way he had looked at her when he mentioned seeing her with Elian. The way he hadn't asked, not really, but had still hoped for some clarity. As if he wanted to understand her more than he wanted to judge her.
And that, somehow, made it worse.
She couldn't lie to him. But she couldn't tell him the truth yet either.
So she gave him the safe version.
Just a coworker.
Just someone helping with stuff.
Not: He's helping me edit the last chapters of a manuscript I've rewritten twelve times because I'm scared of letting people read me too clearly.
Not: I haven't written anything since you started noticing me like a person and not just another stranger in line.
And certainly not: When you said you liked Nymphaea, I wanted to cry and hide and hug you all at once.
Zoey exhaled slowly and took a sip of her drink, letting the bitterness settle on her tongue.
The truth was, she didn't know how to be Zoey Noctelle and Nymphaea in the same room. One was messy, unsure, allergic to vulnerability. The other wrote with reckless softness, as if her heart wasn't a liability but a weapon.
Akash deserved better than being caught between the two.
Maybe that's why she had stayed away for a few days.
Not just because of Elian. But because she was scared of becoming something real in Akash's life. And if she did, what then? What happened when he found out? Would the person behind the words disappoint him?
She looked out the window. The city moved on, oblivious. Raindrops gathered on the glass, racing each other down the pane.
For a moment, she thought about texting Elian.
Can we dial back the bookstore appearances?
Then deleted it.
No point. He didn't know the full story. No one did. Not really.
Not even her.
There were things she was still figuring out—like why she felt lighter and heavier at the same time when Akash smiled at her like she meant something.
Why she kept rereading the messages readers left under her latest story, looking for his voice even though he never left comments.
Why her fingers itched to write again now, just a little, because maybe someone saw her beyond the name, and didn't look away.
Zoey glanced at the seat across from her—empty now.
He'd left a few minutes ago, giving her one last look she couldn't quite translate. Not sadness. Not suspicion. Just… pause. The way someone stares at a sentence they don't understand, hoping the next line will explain it.
But the next line wasn't written yet.
She pulled a pen from her bag and turned over a napkin. Doodled a line. A thought.
"He watches people like stories he hasn't read yet."
She stared at it. Then folded it in half, tucked it into her pocket.
Maybe someday she'd write about someone like him.
But for now, she'd keep watching the words form between them—quiet, incomplete, beautiful in their hesitation.