A story of us

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The café was quieter than usual.

She wasn't sure if it was the time of day or the way the world seemed to slow down when she was with him, but for the first time in a long time, silence didn't feel heavy. It felt comfortable.

She traced the rim of her coffee cup, her gaze flickering to him across the table. He was flipping through a book, the same poetry collection he had bought for her, absentmindedly nodding to himself as he read.

It was strange—this softness between them. She wasn't used to it.

And yet, she didn't want to run from it. Not anymore.

He must have felt her staring because he glanced up, raising an eyebrow. "Something on your mind?"

She hesitated, then smirked. "Just wondering if you're actually reading or if you're just trying to look intelligent."

He scoffed, flipping the book shut dramatically. "I'll have you know, I am intelligent."

She hummed, unconvinced. "If you say so."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "What's really on your mind?"

She swallowed, her fingers tightening slightly around her cup. She could brush it off, change the subject, keep things light like she always did.

But she didn't want to do that either.

Instead, she exhaled. "You ever think about how much things have changed?"

His expression shifted—still light, but softer now. "Yeah," he said. "All the time."

She studied him, trying to gauge how much he meant it. "Does it… ever scare you?"

He tilted his head slightly, considering. "I'd be lying if I said no." His fingers tapped idly against the table. "But I think change is supposed to be scary. Otherwise, it wouldn't mean anything."

She frowned, processing his words. "You think this means something?"

His lips quirked up. "Don't you?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but the answer stuck in her throat.

Because she did.

And that terrified her.

She looked away, staring out the window instead. The street outside was alive with movement—people hurrying by, lost in their own worlds. Once upon a time, she had envied that. The ability to stay detached. To keep moving without looking back.

But now?

Now, she was the one who wanted to stay.

She felt his hand brush against hers on the table—light, hesitant, as if giving her the chance to pull away.

She didn't.

His fingers curled around hers, warm and steady. "I know it's a lot," he murmured. "But I'm not going anywhere."

Her throat tightened.

Because for so long, she had convinced herself that people always left. That no matter how much they promised, no matter how much she let herself hope, they always walked away.

But he hadn't.

And for the first time, she let herself believe he wouldn't.

She squeezed his hand lightly, finally looking back at him. "Okay," she said softly.

His smile was small but real. "Okay."

---

Later that evening, they found themselves back at her apartment.

The night was quiet, the only sound the hum of the city beyond her window. She curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath her as she watched him stretch out across the floor, flipping through the pages of his book again.

It was domestic. Familiar.

It was them.

She exhaled, pulling her blanket tighter around her shoulders. "I don't think I ever asked—why poetry?"

He glanced up, amused. "What do you mean?"

She gestured vaguely at the book. "You don't strike me as the type."

He chuckled, tapping the pages thoughtfully. "I guess I like the way it makes things feel… simple." He shrugged. "People think poetry's complicated, but I think it just says things in a way we're too afraid to."

She blinked, his words settling deep in her chest.

For someone who pretended not to take things seriously, he sure had a way of cutting right to the heart of them.

"Read me one," she said before she could stop herself.

His eyebrows lifted slightly, surprised. "You want me to?"

She nodded, sinking further into the couch. "Yeah."

A slow smile spread across his face. "Alright."

He flipped through the pages, skimming for something. When he finally stopped, he cleared his throat and began reading.

His voice was soft but sure, the words rolling over her like waves. She let herself close her eyes, listening—not just to the poem, but to him.

To the way he lingered on certain phrases. To the way his voice lowered, almost like a secret, when the words felt heavier.

By the time he finished, she felt something she couldn't quite name settle deep inside her.

She opened her eyes. He was already looking at her.

"What'd you think?" he asked, voice quieter now.

She swallowed, her heart beating a little too fast.

"I think…" She hesitated, searching for the right words. "I think you were right."

His brows furrowed. "About what?"

She exhaled. "Poetry. It says things we're too afraid to."

Something flickered in his gaze—something warm, something knowing.

Then, before she could second-guess herself, she reached for his hand again.

And just like before, he didn't pull away.

---

The next morning, she woke up to the smell of coffee.

Blinking against the early sunlight, she sat up, rubbing her eyes.

"You're up," his voice came from the kitchen.

She stretched, suppressing a yawn. "Barely."

He chuckled, setting down a mug in front of her. "Here. I figured I'd earn extra points if I made it before you even asked."

She smirked, wrapping her hands around the warm cup. "Smart move."

He plopped down next to her, watching as she took a slow sip.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then he shifted slightly. "I meant what I said last night, you know."

She glanced at him. "Which part?"

His gaze was steady. "That I'm not going anywhere."

Her fingers tightened around the mug.

It should have been terrifying. It was terrifying.

But instead of fear, all she felt was warmth.

She took another sip of coffee, then set the mug down carefully.

And when she finally met his eyes again, she let herself believe it.

---