The familiar hum of the city outside fades into a dull background noise as I push open the door to the café. The warm aroma of freshly ground coffee beans greets me, but it doesn't soothe the weight in my chest. The place is quiet today, with only a few customers scattered around. The usual bustle is subdued, as if even the world outside has decided to hold its breath.
I glance around, the soft lighting and quiet chatter giving the place a more intimate feel than usual. And then I see him—just as I always do. He's sitting at the counter, his usual spot, the one where he always seems to be when I walk in. His head is bent slightly, fingers lightly tapping on the edge of his notebook as though lost in thought. It's odd how familiar this scene has become, how the same rhythm plays out over and over without either of us ever saying the words that should be said.
I pause for a moment by the door, my hand lingering on the handle, not sure whether I should walk in or turn around and leave. I've been feeling this way a lot lately—like I'm caught in a moment I can't escape from, one where the future feels too uncertain to face, yet the past pulls me back like a gravity I can't defy.
But I step forward anyway, letting the door swing shut behind me with a soft click.
His eyes flicker up as I approach, catching me in that instant before I can hide myself away. There's an intensity in his gaze today, something sharper than usual, as though he's been waiting for something, and now, with me standing here in front of him, he's unsure of what to do next. His lips part to say something, but he doesn't. He just watches me with that quiet curiosity that always feels too heavy to bear.
"Back again?" he says finally, his voice a little rough, as if he's been thinking too much.
I nod, offering the same faint smile I always do, but today, it doesn't feel like enough. The words I want to say, the things I've been holding in, are all crowding at the edges of my thoughts, but I don't say them. Not yet.
"Just needed a break," I say, my voice softer than I intend. I feel the weight of the words, even though they're simple, hollow.
He doesn't respond immediately, just nods slowly, and his eyes flicker down to his notebook, as though he's trying to decide whether to let the moment pass or to draw me into it. I can't decide which one I want.
I sit down at the counter beside him, the stool creaking slightly beneath me. He doesn't look at me, but there's a tension between us, palpable in the space between us.
For a while, we sit there, the only sound the soft clink of cups being placed on the counter, the distant hum of the espresso machine. He continues writing in his notebook, his brow furrowed in concentration. I wonder what he's thinking. I wonder if he's writing something about me—about the things we've never said.
I could ask. I could break the silence and risk shattering the fragile peace that has settled between us. But something holds me back. Maybe I'm not ready to know. Maybe I'm afraid of what he might say if I ask him, if I push him to open up before he's ready.
"Is it hard?" I ask, before I can stop myself. The words slip out, tentative but real.
He glances at me briefly, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to gauge whether I really want to know the answer. For a moment, I wonder if I've crossed some invisible line, but then he answers, his voice steady, almost distant.
"Is what hard?"
I nod towards his notebook, the pen still held loosely in his fingers. "Writing," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Is it hard to keep going when you don't know if anyone will ever understand?"
He's silent for a moment, his eyes flickering to the page before him, but not really seeing it. The question seems to catch him off guard, and I see the briefest flicker of something in his expression—a vulnerability he doesn't usually let show. But it's gone almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the calm exterior he's so good at maintaining.
"Sometimes," he admits quietly, "It's hard to believe anyone's paying attention. But I keep writing because it's the only thing that feels right. Even when it's hard to see the end."
His words hang in the air between us, and for a moment, I don't know what to say. He's speaking more honestly than I've heard in a while, and the weight of it settles on me like a quiet storm.
"I get that," I reply, my voice soft but certain. "I think everyone has something they do because it's the only thing that makes sense. Even if no one notices. Even if it's not enough."
There's another long pause, and I feel his eyes on me, though I don't dare look at him. The tension is thick, and I'm afraid that if I acknowledge it, it'll break, shattering the fragile connection we've formed.
I take a breath, steadying myself, before I finally glance at him. His gaze is on me, and for the first time in a while, I see something there—something raw, something real, like he's peeling back the layers of himself and letting me see what's beneath.
It's terrifying, really. How much of him is still a mystery to me. How much of me is a mystery to him.
"I'm still figuring things out," he says quietly, breaking the silence with a simple truth. "And I think you are too."
His words land on me softly, but they feel like they're more than just an observation. They feel like an invitation—an unspoken challenge to stop hiding behind the things we don't say. I'm not sure if I'm ready for that, but I don't think I can run away from it anymore.
"You're right," I say after a long moment, my voice steady but filled with a kind of quiet resolve. "We both are."
And for the first time in what feels like forever, the silence between us feels like it's not suffocating. It's not forcing me into a corner. It's just… space. Space where maybe, one day, the words we've been holding back can finally escape.
But not yet. Not today.
I finish my coffee in silence, the warmth of it a strange comfort. The weight of the unspoken things between us hangs in the air, but for now, it's okay. There's no rush. We both have time.