LANA'S POV
After Caleb left, I didn't cry.
I didn't throw anything.
I didn't sink to the floor in some dramatic heap of regret.
I just… stood there. On the sidewalk. Watching the car that carried him blur into traffic like a scene that no longer needed me.
Then I turned, walked back into the café, and went straight to the kitchen.
The stainless steel countertops were cool beneath my palms, grounding.
I breathed in the scent of cinnamon and espresso, and told myself it was enough.
For tonight, it had to be.
---
The next morning, I opened early. Not because I had to. But because I didn't want to lie in bed thinking about what I said… or what I didn't say.
The quiet before the first customer was my favorite kind of stillness. It gave me permission to move without explanation.
So I baked. Croissants, lemon scones, raspberry danishes. The oven hummed softly, a steady comfort against the chaos in my chest.
Mira came in around eight and found me elbow-deep in flour.
"Didn't expect to see you here already," she said, slipping off her coat.
"I couldn't sleep."
She gave me a look. "He came back, didn't he?"
I didn't answer right away. I just slid a tray of pastries into the display case and dusted sugar over the tops.
"He came. He left."
Mira leaned against the counter. "You okay?"
"No."
But I smiled anyway. The kind that doesn't quite reach the eyes.
"I'm proud of you," she said. "You didn't let him string you along."
"I wanted to."
"I know," she said. "But that's not the same as needing to."
---
The days blurred.
The cafe filled with regulars. New customers came and went.
A girl spilled her smoothie on table two and cried like the world ended. An old man told me my cinnamon buns reminded him of his late wife.
Life didn't pause just because Caleb did.
And I refused to be the girl who waited by the window again.
I made new specials. The vanilla rose latte caught on faster than I expected. Mira insisted it was the best drink I'd ever created. I knew better.
It tasted like longing.
---
Two weeks passed before I saw him again.
Only this time, it wasn't in person.
A sleek black envelope came with the morning courier, addressed to Miss Lana Carter, Owner, Bloom Café.
Inside was a simple invitation card:
Stone & Co. Annual Gala
An evening of celebration and gratitude.
Saturday, 7:00 PM
Rosebridge Hotel – West Ballroom
Formal attire requested.
No note. No signature.
Just his name embossed in silver at the top.
---
Mira found me staring at it for too long.
"Let me guess," she said. "He's pulling you into his world now."
"It's a gala invite," I said, folding it shut. "Could be business."
Mira snorted. "You know damn well it's not."
I slid the invitation back into the envelope and placed it on the shelf above the register. High enough that I'd have to really want it to reach.
But I couldn't throw it away either.
---
That Friday night, as I closed up, I caught my reflection in the display case, messy ponytail, tired eyes, apron dusted with cocoa powder.
I looked like someone who had moved on.
But I didn't feel like her yet.
And that was the thing no one warned you about healing.
It's slow.
Uneven.
Some days you take ten steps forward. Other days you find yourself searching every black sedan in traffic like your heart still hasn't gotten the memo.
---
The next day, I didn't go to the gala.
But I dressed up anyway.
A midnight blue dress that had been hanging in my closet for years. Simple. Elegant. Not for anyone else—just for me.
I lit a candle. Sat by the window. Made myself a vanilla rose latte.
And when the clock struck seven, I whispered into the silence, "You're not the only one who knows how to disappear, Caleb."
I raised my cup like a toast.
To closure.
To possibility.
To me.
Because whatever version of Caleb showed up next,
if anyit wouldn't change the fact that I'd found something more important than answers.
I'd found myself again.
And I was worth staying for