After we finish eating, the quiet lingers, but it's no longer sharp or heavy. It's soft now—like the last light of evening settling over everything.
We sit side by side on the couch.
Noah hasn't said much since clearing our bowls. He stretches his legs out slightly, arms resting on his thighs. There's a relaxed edge to him now, but I'm still wired. My mind won't stop spinning.
The warm porridge still sits in my stomach, but it hasn't grounded me. I glance sideways at him. His profile is etched with calm—focused, distant, like he's seeing something I can't. That face … something about it. Something still clings to the edges of memory. The longer I stare, the more that itch under my skin sharpens.
It's not just recent familiarity. It's deeper than the cafe. Older than the flyer. There's something I know about him. Something my subconscious has been whispering for weeks, but I was too dazed to listen.
So I ask. Quietly. "Are you sure we haven't met before?"
