Some things are harder to explain than they are to feel.
Like how the sight of her, framed by the soft light of the café window, can both calm and unsettle me. Or how just one smile—hers—can tilt the whole gravity of my world. Zoey has always walked that strange line between closeness and distance, between familiarity and secrecy.
But today, there's someone else walking next to her.
He's tall. Too tall to be forgettable. A quiet confidence in the way he carries himself—shoulders squared, posture relaxed, like someone who's stood next to her before. Often. Someone who belongs in her rhythm, or at least believes he does.
And she smiles.
Not the quiet smile she gives when she's amused, or the small one she offers when she's holding something back. This one is wider, looser. The kind that makes your chest tighten before you know why.
I don't realize I've stopped wiping the counter until the rag slips from my hand and lands on the floor. My fingers don't move to pick it up.
They walk in together, the bell above the café door giving its usual chime, but it feels heavier this time. Her laugh follows a few seconds later—light, breezy, like it doesn't cost her anything. Like it's never cost her anything.
And for a moment, I hate that laugh.
He's close to her. Not in the obvious, hand-on-back kind of way, but in the way his shoulder brushes hers when they move. In the way his head tilts toward her when she talks. It's a kind of intimacy that doesn't need words to announce itself.
She sees me. Of course she does. Her smile falters—just slightly—but it doesn't fall away completely.
"Morning," she says, stepping up to the counter like nothing is different. Like the man standing just behind her doesn't mean anything at all.
I answer with a nod, because I don't trust my voice.
"This is…" she starts, but then pauses. There's a flicker of something behind her eyes—hesitation, maybe. Or calculation. "A friend. He's just visiting."
The word feels like an afterthought. Like a stitch that's been added just to keep the fabric from unraveling.
He doesn't speak, just offers me a nod, one of those polite, indifferent ones you give when you know you're not expected to stay long. But he watches me. Just for a second too long.
I force my hands to move, to do something. I start on her usual order without asking. I know it by heart now. But it doesn't feel like mine to give today.
"You want the same?" I ask, not looking up.
She pauses. "Yeah. Unless…"
"No," he cuts in smoothly. "I'll have whatever she's having."
Of course you will.
I keep my eyes on the machine as I prepare the drinks, focusing on the hiss of steam, the swirl of milk, the clatter of ceramic. But my mind keeps circling back to the way she stood next to him. The way she didn't step away.
I hand them their drinks. She thanks me like always. He doesn't. They sit near the window, their usual spot, and talk low. Too low for me to hear, but loud enough that I can feel it in my chest.
A laugh. His this time.
I look away.
It shouldn't bother me. I tell myself that again and again. Zoey and I—we're not… anything. Not really. We talk. We share silences. We orbit the same spaces. That's it.
But the coffee tastes bitter on my tongue today, and I know I didn't brew it wrong.
When their drinks are halfway gone, he gets up to take a call. She stays, fingers tracing the rim of her cup, her eyes distant.
I catch her looking at me once. Just once. Like she's checking if I'm still here. And I don't look away fast enough.
"You okay?" she asks softly, when she comes to return her cup.
"Always," I say, with a smile I didn't realize I'd learned to fake so well.
She opens her mouth to say something, but he returns before the words can leave her lips.
"I'll see you around," she says, and her voice sounds like she's saying it to the air more than to me.
The door closes behind them.
And I realize the silence they leave behind feels heavier than any words could've been.