Or the night after.
She told herself she was done waiting for an answer that might never come. That she was foolish for thinking words on a page meant anything at all.
But on the third night, she found herself at Café Amour again.
It was a habit now—the scent of coffee, the quiet hum of conversations, the feeling of being somewhere that existed between solitude and belonging.
She told herself she wouldn't check the book.
She told herself she wouldn't care if he had written back.
But she did.
And when she finally reached for it, fingers trembling slightly, she turned to their page and—
"I should have answered sooner."
"But I think you'll understand why I can't."
Lana stared at the words, her pulse steady but too heavy, her mind racing with questions.
He couldn't tell her his name?
Why?
Her thoughts spiraled, piecing together fragments of possibilities. Was he someone important? Someone with a reason to stay hidden?
Or worse—had she been right to think she was just a passing moment in his life?
She clenched her jaw, inhaling sharply.
No.
She wouldn't let herself be another unanswered question in someone's story.
She pulled out her pen, the ink gliding over the page with a finality she hadn't expected.
"Then maybe this is where our story ends."
She let out a slow breath, closing the book gently.
It was better this way.
If he wasn't willing to give her more, she wouldn't keep waiting for something that wasn't hers to hold.
And so, she left Café Amour that night with the kind of quiet resolve that only came from letting go of something before it had the chance to break her.
What she didn't know—
Was that Oryn had arrived only minutes later.
And when he opened the book, when he saw her words written in careful, unwavering ink—
Something inside him cracked.