The shift feels heavier than usual. Saraya doesn't say much. She does her job with practiced ease, humming faintly while she wipes the machines and grinds beans. Her silence isn't cold—it's understanding, maybe even gentle. Like she knows I'm a storm barely holding itself back.
I still wear a smile. A practiced one. A tight-lipped curve that doesn't touch my eyes. I greet customers, ring up orders, scribble names on cups with hands that shake a little less when I'm moving. When I'm busy.
Saraya spends her breaks hunched over her sketchbook, drawing the interior of the cafe in her meticulous architectural style. Her pencil dances with quiet concentration, measuring the room with her eyes, lines, and quiet little nods. She doesn't ask me questions. Doesn't try to fill the silence. And for that, I'm thankful.
It's just after six when I hear the bell above the door.
Noah walks in. I may and may not expected him. Let's say I have a feeling that he would come.
