They shouldn't have hurt.
But they did.
A sharp, unexpected ache settled in his chest as he traced her handwriting, his fingers hovering over the ink as if he could somehow take the words back.
"Then maybe this is where our story ends."
No.
Not like this.
He exhaled, setting the book down as the weight of his own hesitation pressed against him.
He had known this would happen. That his silence—his refusal to say more—would push her away.
But a part of him had hoped she would keep waiting.
That she would understand without needing more.
He had been wrong.
The café felt different now. Smaller. The air too thick, the warmth that once comforted him now suffocating.
He had spent years hiding behind words, letting the world see only the pieces of him he chose to give.
But Lana—whoever she was—had slipped through the cracks.
And now she was gone.
He should have told her the truth.
Even if it wasn't his name.
Even if it wasn't everything.
Something.
Anything.
But now, all he had was an ending he hadn't been ready for.
His fingers curled into a fist, resting against the cover of the book.
Had she meant it?
Would she really never come back?
Oryn ran a hand through his hair, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
It didn't matter now.
He had let the story end before it had the chance to begin.
And for the first time in a long time, he wasn't sure he knew how to write the next page.