There was something poetic about their meetings always starting the same way.
One word.
"Coffee?"
She never said "let's go" or "I'd like to see you." Just "coffee." No period. No tone. But she showed up every time, and for Raka, that was more revealing than any string of emojis or sweet words.
He arrived first, as usual. Choose the window seat. Ordered her usual drink. Sitting watching raindrops smear the glass while imagining how she might describe the scene if she were more verbal.
Maybe something like, "Blurred boundaries. Like people pretending not to feel when they do."
She arrived with little fanfare, shoulders slightly damp from the drizzle, her hair tucked into her hoodie. Her face, pale from the overcast sky, lit up faintly when she saw the cup waiting for her.
"You always remember," she said, settling into the chair across from him.
He smiled. "You never change your order."
"You'd be surprised how many people still forget."
That caught him off guard. She was opening up, just a little.
They drank in comfortable silence. Then he asked, "Do you enjoy these meetups?"
She stared at her cup. "I enjoy that you don't force me to perform."
He blinked. "Perform?"
"Be bubbly. Be chatty. Be someone else."
He nodded slowly. "I like who you are without the performance."
She looked at him for a moment, longer than usual. "Then I guess I like who you are, too."
Raka didn't know what to say. She sipped her drink like nothing special had happened. But something had.
She didn't have to elaborate.
Because for the first time, he realized she didn't speak with warmth, she lived it quietly.
And that was enough.