In the Café on 7th Street

The apartment was too quiet. I never thought silence could feel so loud.

The place I live in now still carries the faint scent of him—burnt coffee, cologne too sweet for my liking, the way his shirts clung to the back of a chair he never pushed in. It’s been years since we ended, yet the shadows stretch long across the walls, as if the past refuses to leave with him.

I sat on the floor with my back against the couch, staring at the sweater folded neatly on the armrest. It wasn’t mine. It belonged to him—Gabriel. He left it behind the night he walked away. Sometimes I wonder if he forgot it, or if he left it on purpose, knowing I would never have the courage to throw it out.

I tell myself I keep it because it’s soft, because it’s useful on cold nights. But that’s a lie. The sweater is proof. Proof that I had been loved once, proof that I ruined something good.

When Gabriel left, he didn’t shout. He didn’t slam doors. He just packed quietly, eyes down, and I sat frozen, saying nothing. By then, words had already failed us both. He had looked at me like a locked door he had knocked on too many times.

The night he left, I told myself I deserved it. That I would never deserve love again.

Friends tell me to move on. They say I’m young, that love will circle back eventually, that people heal if they let themselves. I nod along, but in truth, I don’t believe them. I don’t think I’m built for second chances. Once you’ve broken something fragile enough times, it doesn’t matter how much glue you smear on—it’ll never hold.

So I stay in this half-light, convinced that this is what I deserve: echoes instead of voices, the weight of memory instead of touch.

It’s been three years. I’ve grown used to silence. To carrying my ghosts around like furniture I can’t throw away.

Time, like grief, stretches and folds. Days blur. I make routines out of nothing—wake up, work, sleep, repeat. But there’s one small ritual that anchors me: the café on 7th Street.

It isn’t special. The coffee’s average, the croissants slightly stale. But it has tall windows that spill light across worn wooden tables, and that’s enough reason to return. Sitting there, watching the world shuffle by, I feel a little less like a ghost haunting myself.

That’s where I first saw him.

I wasn’t looking for anyone that day. The café was just neutral ground, a place where no one asked questions. I could sit there for an hour, hidden in plain sight, surrounded by noise that didn’t need me.

That’s when he walked in. He leaned over the counter to pick up his drink, laughing with the barista like laughter came easy to him. I noticed his smile before I noticed anything else.

At first, it was just coincidence. We’d both be there in the late afternoons, me with my half-read novel, him with his laptop and a stack of papers. He sat two tables over, hair damp from rain, flipping through the papers with dog-eared pages. I didn’t think much of it—people come and go, after all. I told myself I didn’t notice how he glanced at me sometimes, or how his smile lingered like sunlight filtering through dusty blinds.

But then he looked up, and for some inexplicable reason, he smiled at me. Not the kind of smile strangers give to be polite. This was warm, like he’d been waiting to see me all along.

The next week, he was there again. And the one after that. Always the same table, always some stack of paper, and always that unassuming smile when our eyes met. Eventually, we spoke.

“You always let your coffee go cold,” he said as he passed my table.

I froze, startled. “You’ve been watching?”

“Not in a creepy way,” he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just . . . noticed. Seems like a waste.”

“Well,” I started, having no defence, “I actually like cold coffee.”

He pursed his lips, something like amusement flickering across his face.

“Noah,” he said, smiling as he extended his hand.

“Alastar,” I replied, taking it.

He nodded. “Well, nice to meet you, Mr. Cold Coffee Lover. I’ll let you get back to your . . . ritual.” He left with a smirk.

I should’ve brushed him off. But his tone wasn’t intrusive—it was gentle, like he was opening a door I didn’t have to walk through unless I wanted to. So I smiled, just a little.

Weeks blurred. Noah kept showing up. Sometimes with a book. Sometimes with a pile of documents he buried his face in. He asked about me, but he never pushed when I gave clipped answers.

One afternoon, the barista slid my drink and a croissant across the counter just as Noah appeared beside me. He ordered the same thing—exactly the same. He caught me glancing at his tray and grinned.

 “Copycat,” he muttered under his breath.

“No,” I shot back nonchalantly, “trendsetter.”

Then, without asking, he sat across from me. Matching plates. Matching cups. I almost laughed. Almost.

Another time, he leaned over when I had my book open. “You’ve been on that page for ten minutes,” he teased.

I blinked down at the words, blurred into meaningless black lines. “Maybe I’m rereading.”

He smirked. “Sure you are.”

Once, he was humming under his breath, earbuds hanging loose, tapping his fingers against the table. A tune I recognized from late nights when I couldn’t sleep. The comment slipped out before I could stop it: “You’re off-key.”

His head jerked up in surprise. Then he laughed. “You actually listen? I thought you tuned me out.”

So did I.

Still, I kept my bag propped on the chair beside me, a shield. A silent way of saying: this seat is taken, this space is closed. Noah never asked to sit there. He always took the opposite chair instead, as if he knew the distance mattered. Maybe he noticed everything.

“Do you always sit in this corner?” he asked one Tuesday.

“Do you always find me here?” I countered.

“Maybe,” he said, lips tugging into a grin. “I’m starting to think you’re part of the décor.”

Another time, he leaned across the table. “So what do you write in that notebook you never open?”

“It’s just . . . thoughts,” I muttered.

“Cryptic,” he teased. “I like it. Maybe one day you’ll let me read a line.”

“Maybe,” I said, though I knew I wouldn’t.

We started talking more after that. Little things at first: the weather, the books he read, the way the barista always forgot his extra shot of espresso. Soon it became longer conversations: how he moved to the city last year, how he still got lost on the subway, how he painted on weekends.

It terrified me how easy it was to like him. How natural it felt to slip into his orbit.

But every time he leaned closer, every time our laughter tangled across the small wooden table, a part of me tightened. A warning. Don’t. Don’t start what you can’t finish. Don’t give him a heart that’s already in pieces.

So I kept the walls up. Smiled, but pulled back. Answered questions, but never gave too much. And Noah—patient, unshaken—never pushed.

It was a Thursday evening when he brought up the future. He’d been joking with the barista about one day owning a café chain, then turned back to me, still smiling.

“Or maybe I’ll just be the old guy hogging this corner table. What about you?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think about the future.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t see myself in it.”

The air shifted. His smile faltered just a little. “That sounds . . . lonely.”

I stared at the half-empty cup between us, as if the dregs might offer an answer.

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, softly, “Maybe you don’t have to see the whole picture yet. Just the next step. Sometimes that’s enough.”

When I finally stood to leave, the usual weight pressed against my chest. I adjusted the strap of my bag, gave him a small nod.

As I stepped out, the café window caught his reflection—Noah still inside, laughing at something the barista said. The sound followed me onto the street, bright and too close.

I told myself not to remember it.

But I knew I would.

I don’t remember when it stopped feeling strange to see him there. At first it was coincidence—just the accident of two people choosing the same café often enough to brush lives. But the weeks bent together, and now it feels less like accident, more like gravity.

The months passed quietly, stitched together by small, accidental moments I didn’t realize were forming something.

It rained one afternoon, and we ended up side by side under the café’s awning. We didn’t speak, just let the city blur gray around us. His shoulder brushed mine—not on purpose, not pulled away either—and I remember thinking the rain was louder than his words.

There was the time he noticed me rereading the same novel again. “Don’t you ever finish?” he teased. Before I could stop myself, I handed it over. A week later, he returned it, dog-eared pages and complaints about the ending, and I laughed—really laughed—for the first time in months.

Once, he missed his bus because we were talking. He pretended to be annoyed, but I saw the grin that lingered long after, and a small, stubborn part of me wondered if he’d missed it on purpose.

And then there was the near-spill, the sugar jar tipping, my hand jerking just in time for him to catch the cup. “You’re hopeless,” he said, smiling like it wasn’t the first time he’d thought it. I muttered a quiet thank you, embarrassed by how close his hand had been to mine.

Even our silences held weight. One evening, he hummed under his breath, a tune I didn’t know. I almost asked about it, but I let it be. The quiet felt honest—more honest than any question I could have asked.

All these fragments, these tiny accidents and choices, accumulated without me noticing. By the time the café emptied one late evening and the windows rattled with the first drops of a storm, I realized I no longer dreaded his presence. I didn’t know if I trusted it yet, or if I ever would—but the ground between us had shifted, and I could feel the inevitability of what was coming.

And it happened that evening.

The sky cracked open and spilled rain like it had been holding back for weeks. The café was nearly empty, chairs stacked, the barista wiping counters in a rhythm that meant closing soon.

Noah glanced at the downpour and then at me. “Do you want me to walk you home?” he asked.

I hesitated. The rational part of me wanted to refuse—I didn’t want to owe him, didn’t want to open that door. But the thought of walking alone through sheets of rain, drenched in cold, sounded unbearable. So I nodded.

We stepped outside. The rain hit instantly, cold and relentless. I shrank under the edge of his jacket, and he laughed, the sound muffled by the storm.

“I told you this wouldn’t keep us dry,” I muttered, tugging at the edge.

He adjusted it over both our heads. “It was worth a try.”

A car swished past, sending a puddle toward our shoes. I jumped back, muttering under my breath.

He grinned. “Careful, trendsetter.”

We fell into a rhythm, side by side. Puddles hissed underfoot, streetlights blurred into the wet asphalt, and the world seemed smaller, quieter, suspended between droplets. I kept my gaze low, watching reflections more than him.

“Do you ever notice how the city looks different in the rain?” He asked, trying to break the silence.

I shook my head, unsure why I answered. “Yeah . . . quieter. Honest.”

“You know, speaking of honest,” he said quietly, “I like spending time with you.”

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “You shouldn’t . . . ”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . I’m broken,” I admitted, voice trembling. “I don’t have anything left to give. I tried before . . . it ended in ruins. Whoever tries again—it won’t work. Not with me.”

He slowed until our steps matched perfectly. “You think you don’t deserve anything better,” he said softly, “but you do.”

“I don’t . . . ” I whispered. “All I have are mistakes and shadows. That’s it.”

He was quiet, letting the drizzle wash over us. I noticed the smell of wet concrete, the faint tang of rain in the air, the soft glow of streetlights in puddles.

“Do you know why I never asked for your number? Or your social media? Why I never ask when you’re going to the cafe again? Why I never give hints when I’ll be back?” I asked, my voice hesitant.

“Yes,” he nodded. “I can see the walls, Star. Very clearly.”

I paused, unsure what to say. “Then why do you keep moving closer despite them?”

He smiled, gentle and patient. “I don’t mean to break them down. I’m happy talking with you through the cracks.”

I shook my head, a weak laugh escaping. “This won’t work.”

The rain softened to a drizzle. He brushed a wet strand of hair from my face—light, almost accidental.

“Star, healing doesn’t mean erasing what happened,” he said, quieter now. “It means carrying it without letting it crush you. You don’t have to be ready for love or a commitment with me—or anyone. But don’t lock yourself away just because you’re afraid. You still have a heart; it’s just tired. That doesn’t mean it can’t open again.”

“I need you to understand something,” I said. My voice cracked, but I pushed through. “I’m not ready for . . . anything. Not love. Not a relationship. I don’t think I’m capable of it anymore.”

Noah didn’t laugh, didn’t scoff. He just tilted his head, like he was trying to see inside me. “Why not?”

“Because I ruined the last one,” I said. The words felt heavier out loud. “I destroyed something good. And now, I don’t deserve more than the shadows of that. I can’t just . . . give my heart again, like it hasn’t already failed someone.”

He was quiet long enough that my chest tightened. I almost braced for him to leave. Instead, he stepped closer, his voice gentle but steady.

“You deserve more than shadows, Star. You don’t have to be untouched. You just have to be willing. Opening your heart doesn’t mean forgetting—it means letting something new grow beside what hurt you.”

I shook my head. My throat was dry. “And if I hurt you the way I hurt him?”

He smiled, faint but sure. “Then we’ll hurt. And we’ll heal. That’s what people do. But you can’t let ghosts decide how you live.”

I wanted to argue, to retreat into the safety of my walls. But standing there, the wet night pressing in, his voice steady beside me—I couldn’t.

We walked past a flickering streetlight. I glanced at him, really looked: patience, calm, the quiet insistence of someone who refused to leave. And for the first time in months, maybe years, I let myself wonder if he was right.

We reached my building. I fumbled with my keys, throat tight with words I couldn’t find. Before going in, I whispered, “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“That’s okay,” he said softly. “You don’t have to know. Just . . . don’t close the door completely. Not on me. Not on yourself.”

I looked down at my hands. They were trembling. Noah reached for them. For a long moment, I wanted to pull away.

But I didn’t. Hesitant, unwilling, almost against myself, I let his fingers close around mine.

It wasn’t love. Not yet. Maybe not for a long time. But it was something. A rebellion, however small, against the weight I’d been dragging behind me.

For the first time in months, I smiled—and it didn’t feel like a lie.

The rain had stopped. The air smelled of wet earth and faint sweetness. I stood there, holding his gaze, teetering between shadows and the frightening light of something new.

I didn’t step forward that night, but I didn’t turn away either.

The shadows were still there. They probably always would be.

But for the first time, I wondered if maybe—just maybe—there was light waiting at their edges.

For me, that was enough of a beginning.