Theme song:"Youth by daughter"
The next day, he didn't come.
I waited, even after my shift ended. I pretended to wipe tables long past closing time. I folded napkins that didn't need folding. I counted how many times the door could've opened.
But it never did.
Maybe he got busy. Maybe it was the rain. Maybe I imagined the whole thing—the coffee promise, the second chair, the way he looked at me like I was a puzzle he almost remembered how to solve.
But he didn't show the day after that either.
Or the day after that.
I should've let it go. I'd only known him for a few weeks. And yet… I found myself glancing at the corner every time the bell above the café door jingled. It never stopped hurting when it wasn't him.
On the fourth day, I opened the book.
I hadn't meant to. I'd held it for days behind the counter, convincing myself I was just keeping it safe. But the way he left it behind, like he needed to forget it—maybe he was trying to let go of something that was already part of me.
I didn't read the words. I only looked at the photo.
It was a woman. Blonde, maybe older than me, smiling with a summer sun behind her and Elian's arm wrapped around her shoulders. His smile was the same, but his eyes were different. Lighter. Not weighed down by the kind of sadness that never fully leaves.
They looked like they belonged in a life that didn't hurt.
And suddenly, I hated her. Not because she was beautiful, or because she had him—but because she had known a version of him I never would.
I closed the book and slid it back into the drawer.
When he finally came back, it was a week later. He looked different—tired in a way that didn't just come from sleepless nights.
"Sorry," he said, eyes avoiding mine. "I didn't mean to disappear."
"You left your book," I replied, cool and practiced, even though my heart was thudding so loud I thought he could hear it.
He nodded slowly. "I know."
He didn't sit that day. Just stood by the counter, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets.
"I was in the hospital," he said.
The word hit me like cold water. Hospital.
"I'm fine," he added quickly, like he had to say it fast or I wouldn't believe it. "It's not... dramatic. Just a check-up. Part of a thing."
"A thing?" I asked.
He hesitated, then smiled. "Nothing I want to talk about in a place that smells like burnt croissants."
Despite everything, I laughed.
And just like that, the heaviness lifted for a moment.
Before he left, he placed a cup beside the register—my favorite order.
"I owed you this," he said, softly. "For the chair."
And then, for the first time, he said my name.
"Mira."
Just one word. But it felt like a beginning I didn't know I was already living in.