Oryn didn't walk into Café Amour—he rushed. His heart was pounding, though whether it was from hope or dread, he couldn't tell. The moment he stepped inside, the familiar scent of coffee and vanilla wrapped around him, but today, it didn't feel warm. It felt suffocating.
His eyes scanned the space, searching for something—her, maybe. But she wasn't there.
She never was.
The ache in his chest tightened as he made his way toward the bookshelf. His fingers, slightly unsteady, moved along the spines like a habit. He knew exactly where it should be, exactly how it would feel beneath his touch.
Except—
It wasn't there.
The book was gone.
Oryn froze.
For a moment, he thought maybe he had reached for the wrong spot. Maybe someone had moved it, or maybe it had just been misplaced. But as he searched the shelf, pulling out books, flipping through pages that weren't hers, the truth settled over him like a slow, suffocating weight.
She had taken it.
She had left, and this time, she had taken her words with her.
A chair scraped against the floor nearby, the sounds of the café moving on as if nothing had happened. But for him, something had.
Something was missing.
She was missing.
The realization sat heavy in his chest, cold and quiet. He had spent so much time waiting, hesitating, thinking he could control the pace of this strange, delicate thing between them. And now, when he was finally ready, she was gone.
Had she given up?
Had she decided it wasn't worth it?
He didn't know. And now, maybe he never would.
Oryn lingered for a moment, his fingers still hovering over the empty space where the book should have been. A knot formed in his stomach, a strange mix of frustration and something quieter—regret, maybe.
He turned toward the counter, his steps slow, almost reluctant. The barista, a woman who had been working there for as long as he could remember, was watching him with an expression that was too knowing for his liking.
"Looking for something?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.
Oryn hesitated. Then, against his better judgment, he nodded. "The book," he said, his voice lower than he intended. "It was here yesterday."
The barista leaned on the counter, considering him. "The little old poetry book, right?"
He swallowed. "Yeah."
She let out a quiet hum, tapping her fingers against the counter. "She took it."
Oryn's heart stilled. "She?"
The barista gave him a look like he had just asked a question he already knew the answer to. "The girl who always checked it before you did. The one who left those little notes inside. She came in last night, pulled it from the shelf, and just… left with it."
Oryn's breath left him in a slow, uneven exhale.
She had taken it.
Not just walked away from it—taken it. As if she wanted to make sure there was nothing left for him to find.
"Did she… did she say anything?" His voice came out rougher than he meant it to.
The barista considered him for a moment before shaking her head. "Not a word."
Oryn looked down, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He wasn't sure what he had been hoping for. Some kind of explanation? A message left behind just for him?
No.
She had made her choice.
And now, he had to live with it.
Oryn sat in the corner of the café longer than he intended, fingers drumming against the edge of his cup, untouched coffee growing cold. The book was gone. She was gone. And for the first time since this strange connection began, he had no way of reaching her.
The barista had moved on to other customers, but she kept glancing his way, as if expecting him to ask something more. He wanted to, but what was left to ask?
Instead, he ran a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply. Then, as if some last sliver of stubborn hope remained, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a pen. His fingers hovered over a napkin before pressing down, ink bleeding into the thin paper.
"I was too late."
He stared at the words for a long moment, then shook his head.
No.
That wasn't what he wanted to leave behind. He flipped the napkin over and wrote something else. Something less like an ending.
Then, without another glance, he folded it and slipped it beneath the sugar jar on the counter before walking out.
He told himself he wouldn't come back.
But deep down, he knew better.
The napkin sat untouched for hours, blending into the quiet hum of the café. Customers came and went, hands reaching for sugar, for cream, for anything but the folded slip of paper left behind.
It wasn't until late evening, when the café had emptied to only a few lingering souls, that the barista finally noticed it. She hesitated, glancing toward the door as if expecting him to return. When he didn't, she unfolded the napkin and read the words.
Maybe some stories aren't meant to end here.
The barista exhaled softly, lips pressing together. She wasn't sure if it was meant for someone specific or just a thought he needed to release into the world. Either way, she carefully tucked the napkin into her apron pocket.
Some things weren't meant to be thrown away.