Lana had never been the kind of person to linger on expectations.
But tonight was different.
She arrived at Café Amour at exactly 5:00 PM, heart steady but hands clasped a little too tightly in her lap. Noa had teased her before she left—something about "If he doesn't show, at least you'll look stunning while waiting."
She had laughed then.
She wasn't laughing now.
She ordered a drink, something warm to hold onto. Something to ground her. The café buzzed around her, the usual hum of conversations, the clinking of cups against saucers, the occasional bursts of laughter. But her world had narrowed down to one thing.
The door.
Each time it opened, her breath hitched.
Each time it wasn't him, she exhaled.
Time passed in slow, painful increments.
Her fingers tapped against the ceramic rim of her cup. Maybe he was caught up in something. Maybe he was just running late.
The waitress refilled her tea without asking, giving her a knowing but sympathetic glance.
The café grew quieter. The after-work crowd thinned, replaced by couples on dates, friends catching up over dessert.
Lana's fingers curled slightly against the table.
She checked the note again. Meet me tomorrow. Same place. 5 PM.
Had she misunderstood?
No. It was clear.
He had asked her to meet him.
And he wasn't here.
But still—she waited.
Because if she left, it would be real.
And she wasn't ready for that.
Her untouched tea had gone cold. She had stopped checking the door. Stopped hoping.
But she still stayed.
The barista at the counter gave her a small smile, as if to ask, Are you okay?
She wasn't.
Noa texted: Still there?
Lana stared at the message.
After a moment, she typed back. Yeah.
Three dots appeared. Then disappeared.
Noa didn't push. She knew Lana too well for that.
The café had nearly emptied. Only a few patrons remained, lost in books or quiet conversations. The music had softened, something slow and wistful playing through the speakers.
Lana finally exhaled, pressing her fingers against her forehead.
This was it.
This was the moment she admitted to herself that she had been stood up.
She stood, chair scraping softly against the floor.
The weight in her chest was heavy, but her face was blank.
If anyone looked at her, they wouldn't see the girl who had waited for four hours.
They wouldn't see the way her heart had cracked, piece by piece, with every passing minute.
They would only see a woman picking up her bag, walking out the door, as if she hadn't just let herself believe in something—someone—that was never coming.