Oryn didn't return to the café that night.
He had planned to. Had told himself he would.
But Romy had called.
And the moment he heard her voice, something in his chest tightened, an old ache pressing against his ribs.
Romy was his past. A best friend before she was anything else. And for a short time, something more.
It hadn't lasted.
They had burned too bright, too fast—until all that was left were embers of something they didn't know how to hold. And yet, she was still here, still woven into his life in ways that felt impossible to untangle.
So when she called, asking him to meet her, he didn't say no.
Maybe he should have.
Lana returned to the café the next evening, heart in her throat.
She told herself she wasn't nervous. That this was just curiosity. That his answer—whatever it was—wouldn't change anything.
But when she pulled the book from the shelf, when she flipped to their page and saw nothing beneath her question, something inside her went still.
He hadn't answered.
Her fingers hovered over the paper, as if willing words to appear.
But there was only silence.
Only blank space where a reply should have been.
For the first time, doubt crept in.
Had she imagined this connection? Had she read too much into the way his words felt like something meant for her?
Was she just another fleeting thought in a stranger's life?
She closed the book carefully, setting it back in its place, forcing herself to breathe.
Maybe this was her answer.
Maybe silence was all he had left to say.
And maybe it was time to stop waiting.
Oryn didn't return to the café for three days.
When he did, it was later than usual, the space quieter, dimmer.
He found the book easily—too easily.
The weight of it felt different in his hands.
He flipped to their page, eyes scanning the words he had left behind.
"Then tell me your name."
His throat tightened.
He should have answered.
He wanted to answer.
But Romy's voice still echoed in his head, pulling him back to a time when love had felt reckless, when it had been easy to mistake familiarity for forever.
He had let the past steal his present.
And now, he might have lost something before he even had the chance to hold it.
He pressed his pen to the page.
And finally, he wrote:
"I should have answered sooner."
"But I think you'll understand why I can't."
A hesitation.
A choice.
A secret left waiting.