The café feels different today. It's not the usual hum of background noise or the clink of coffee cups that fills the space. It's something else, something that I can't quite put my finger on. It's as though the very air has shifted, charged with something electric. And no, it's not the weather. It's her.
I knew she'd show up today. Maybe not at this exact moment, but it was inevitable. The same way the sun sets every evening.
She's here now, standing by the counter, eyes scanning the menu like she doesn't already know what she'll order. I could ask her, offer a suggestion. But I don't. I've learned something over the past few months: we don't need to fill the silence all the time. There's a kind of comfort in it, in the shared space between us that doesn't need words.
She catches my eye, the briefest flicker of acknowledgment. I nod in return, a gesture that's become almost second nature. And just like that, we're both back in our rhythm, both of us knowing exactly where we stand, even if we haven't said it aloud.
She walks toward the counter, steps soft but deliberate, and I catch a glimpse of her face in the reflection of the espresso machine. There's a quiet intensity in her gaze, like she's trying to work something out, and I find myself wondering if it's about me. Or maybe it's something bigger, something deeper that I don't fully understand yet.
My hand lingers on the milk frother, a faint pulse of anxiety running through me. It's strange, but when she's near, I can't help but feel like I'm walking a fine line between something I can't explain.
"Same as always?" I ask, my voice hoarse, though I don't know why. There's a lightness to the air around her today. Maybe she's finally opening up more. Or maybe it's just me projecting, convincing myself that I can sense something new in her that she's been hiding.
She hesitates for a moment, then shakes her head. "I'll go with something different today. Surprise me."
I feel a shift in the room. It's subtle, but it's there. It's the kind of moment where you can't tell if things are about to change, but you're standing at the edge of something you're not entirely sure you want to dive into.
"Surprise you, huh?" I say, trying to keep my tone light, even though I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing. I reach for the dark roast, the one that's always a little bit bitter but has a certain richness to it. It's a gamble, but I think she'll appreciate it.
She watches me, her lips curving slightly. "I trust you. I think you've figured out my taste by now."
There's something about the way she says it, like there's a deeper layer I can't quite reach. She trusts me. It's not just about the coffee, and it's not just a casual remark. It feels like it's meant for something else. Something I haven't quite put together yet.
The coffee brews, the machine humming in the background, and I feel the minutes stretch between us, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. Her presence, though subtle, seems to fill the room, and I can't help but wonder if she feels the same tension that I do.
"Here you go," I say, placing the mug in front of her. "Let me know if it's too much."
Her fingers brush against mine as she takes it, and for a second, I forget to breathe. It's fleeting, just a touch, but it sends a ripple of awareness through me that I can't ignore. I pull my hand back quickly, but I don't look away. I can't.
She doesn't seem to notice the sudden shift. Or maybe she does, but she doesn't acknowledge it. Her eyes lock with mine for a moment, and I can't decide if she's trying to read me or if she's waiting for me to say something.
"You've been quiet today," she remarks, her voice casual but there's a hint of curiosity in it.
"I've been thinking," I say, offering her a half-smile. I want to say more, but the words don't come. Instead, I find myself watching her more closely than I should, trying to figure out what's behind that expression of hers. The one that always seems like she's hiding something just beneath the surface.
"I can tell," she replies, her eyes narrowing slightly. "But you're not going to tell me what, are you?"
It's a challenge. A quiet challenge, but a challenge nonetheless. And it makes me hesitate. It's not the first time she's asked me something like this, but today it feels different. There's a weight to her words, like she's trying to push me toward something—something I don't want to face yet.
But maybe that's what this is. A slow push, an unspoken tug toward honesty, even if I'm not ready for it. I don't know if she's ready either. I don't even know if I'm ready to hear the things I'm avoiding.
Instead of answering her question, I find myself asking a question of my own. "What about you?" I ask, keeping my voice steady, though the question feels heavier than I want it to. "What's on your mind?"
She looks at me, really looks at me this time, as though weighing my words, as though deciding if she should let me in, just a little bit more. I see the flicker of hesitation in her eyes before it disappears, hidden behind the mask she wears so well.
"It's nothing," she says, though I know it's not true. It never is with her.
But she doesn't elaborate, and I don't press. Not today. There's something in the way she's sitting now, a kind of stillness in her posture that tells me she's lost in thought, caught between things she's not ready to say. Just like me.
We sit in silence for a while, the coffee between us, both of us pretending it's enough. But it's not. I know it, and I think she does, too.
The world outside continues, unaware of the little moments we're trying to build in this small corner of the café. But for now, it's enough to just be here, to let the space settle around us without the need for words.
At least, that's what I tell myself.