She smiles. "I saw you from the bar. Thought I'd say hi before I chickened out."
I grip my coffee tighter.
She twirls a napkin in her fingers. "Are you single?"
I stop breathing.
Ryder hesitates—just for a moment—then says, "Yeah. I am."
Everything inside me turns to static.
She grins, writes her number, and slides the napkin to him. "Call me sometime."
He takes it. "Sure." Then stands and walks toward the restroom.
The table is quiet for a beat before Denim Jacket Guy leans back with a chuckle. "Well, damn. Finally. He told us he hasn't been into anyone for, like, a year. Good to see him snapping out of it."
I hear those words like I'm underwater. I nod politely, but I can feel the walls closing in. Esme turns to me, her voice soft. "Hey. You okay?"
"I need some air," I whisper. But I don't head outside. My feet don't know how to move in the direction of grace anymore.
Instead, I turn. Slowly. Dreading what I might find, already knowing what I will.
And there they are. He's not in the restroom. He's standing near the hallway, half-shadowed by the café's warm Edison lights, talking to her.Still. Laughing at something she said, his posturerelaxed in a way he never is with me. His smile is soft, easy. Uncomplicated.
Something sharp lodges in my throat. She leans closer, tucks her hair behind her ear like she knows she has his attention. And he lets her. He gives herthatversion of himself—the open one, the light one. The one I've only ever gotten in borrowed hours behind my closed blinds.
I can't stay. I just can't.
"I want to go," I say to Esme. My voice breaks like glass.
She hears it. Her eyes flash with concern, but she doesn't ask. She just nods and rises with me, already gathering her coat, already on my side. She doesn't need the details to know that something inside me has shattered.
We don't say goodbye to the table. I don't look at his friends. I don't give him the chance to call out or explain or lie again with his eyes.
But just before I cross the threshold, I feel it.
His eyes on me.
I don't have to turn to know he's watching. Ifeelthe jolt of awareness hit him—like he's just now realizing what this momentactuallymeant. Like only now, with the door swinging closed, does he understand that I was there. That Isaw.
I look back anyway.
Just once.
And there he is. Frozen. A flicker of guilt in his eyes. Maybe shame. Maybe regret. But not enough.Never enough.I walk out without another word.
The cold air outside slams into me like a wall. I press a hand to my chest, like that'll help hold everything in, but it doesn't. The ache is spreading, deep and heavy and mean. It sits in my ribs like something feral, gnawing from the inside.
It feels like grief.
Like mourning something that never even had the chance to become real. Something Ihopedfor. Something Iclungto even when it bruised me. Esme stays beside me, quiet. No questions. Just presence. And it's the kindest thing anyone could offer in this moment.
I want to disappear. I want to rewind the whole night and un-say every word, un-hope every hope. By the time I get home, my limbs feel hollow. I walk in, drop my keys on the table, and crumble onto the couch without taking off my shoes. No tears come—just that sick, quiet numbness that happens when your body's too tired to even cry.
I lie there, frozen, hugging a pillow like it's the only thing that hasn't let me down.
And I think of all the ways he saw me—behind closed doors, in stolen moments, in silence.
