Old lovers café

Years. It’s been years since then. Yet, every now and then, I still catch the scent — cinnamon, old books, freshly brewed coffee with a hint of amber, and it’s like time folds in on itself. One breath, and I’m back in that café, light spilling in across the scratched-up table, your hand brushing mine over a the rim of a chipped porcelain cup. I don’t remember the conversation — just the feeling— of almost saying something, of almost reaching for something we both knew wouldn’t last. Funny how scents hold more truth than memory ever could.

I didn’t come here looking for you. I told myself that, anyway— told myself it was just a stop on the way somewhere else. But as I stepped inside, the warmth of the café wrapped around me, familiar and soft, like a song you forget you know the words to. And there you were.

My heart didn’t lurch. Not dramatically, anyway. But something inside me paused— like my body hadn’t quite caught up to the sight of you. For a heartbeat, I could almost believe nothing had changed, the we were still just two people circling the beginning of something. The years hadn’t softened you, but they hadn’t hardened you either.You were still unmistakably you. And seeing you again didn’t hurt— not exactly. It just rearranged something.

Same table in the corner that you sat at back then, with the same posture— elbow resting on the back of the chair, fingers curled around a mug. Probably sipping on a cinnamon latte. A book on the table. Your hair was shorter, maybe. Your coat a little more worn, But the way you looked up at me— startled, unreadable— that hadn’t changed.

I went up to the counter and ordered a strawberry-coconut latte and a chocolate-almond croissant.

‘‘Didn’t expect to see you here,’’ you said.

I shrugged. ‘‘Didn’t expect to come in.’’

A beat passed. Two.

‘‘Sit?’’ you asked, like it was just any other day. like years hadn’t happened between the last time and now.

I slid into the seat across from you. The cinnamon hit me first. Cinnamon, then coffee. then amber— like memory unspooling in layers. I smiled without meaning to. It was ridiculous, really, how a few familiar notes could tug at something so deep. I used to tease you about how you smelled like the inside of a well-read novel and a spice drawer. You used to roll your eyes and say it was better than gym socks and regret. God, we were good at hiding things behind jokes.

I swallowed. ‘‘You still wear it?’’

‘‘What?’’

I nodded toward the scent in the air. ‘‘The same cologne.’’

You looked down at your cup, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. ‘‘I guess some habits don’t leave as quietly.’’

A silence settled. Not awkward. Just aware.

Outside, rain streaked the windows in long, tired lines. A woman walked past, clutching her scarf to her chest, her eyes downturned. The world had kept moving. We had, too. Just not always in the direction.

‘‘Still writing?’’ you asked.

I nodded. ‘‘Mostly mornings. Some nights, when I can’t sleep.’’

‘‘You never could sleep well without noise.’’

‘‘I still keep the fan on.’’

Your smile lingered, then fadded. ‘‘I read that piece about the train station. The girl with the red coat.’’

‘‘You read that.’’

‘‘Wanted to leave a comment. Felt like it wasn’t my place to anymore when I tried.’’

‘‘You could have. What would have said?’’

‘‘I’ll leave one on the next that comes out.’’

I waited.

You didn’t say anything more.

I wondered if you were waiting for me to say it— or if you were relieved I hadn’t. There’s always a second heartbeat in silence, something thick behind the quiet. We’d gotten used to not naming things, hadn’t we? Even back then. Always talking around the sharp edges. I wanted to ask if you ever regretted not turning that almost into something real. But some questions come too late. Or maybe we just learn which answers we can live without.

‘‘She wasn’t you,’’ I said.

‘‘I know.’’ You paused. ‘‘But she could have been.’’

The bell over the door chimed as someone walked in, shook off an umbrella, ordered a chai. Life went on around us. Uneventful. Steady.

‘‘You ever think about it?’’ you asked.

I didn’t need to ask what.

‘‘Sometimes,’’ I said. ‘‘When I hear that song. Or pass the old bookstore on Ninth.’’

You nodded. ‘‘The one with the cracked skylight.’’

‘‘And the cat that hated everyone but you.’’

We both smiled.

You turned your mug slowly, hands wrapped around it like it might spill truth if you weren’t careful.

I watched a drop of rain race another down the glass. I remembered mornings just like this one. The silence. The not-quite-touch. The scent of something warm, fresh out of the oven, just before it cools.

‘‘Are you happy?’’ I asked.

You hesitated. ‘‘Sometimes. You?’’

‘‘Sometimes.It’s good to see you doing well after everything.’’

‘‘You too.’’

We sat there a while longer. No more confessions. No sudden, sweeping moments. Just two people who had loved each other once, sitting in a coffee shop, surrounded by old scents and older silences. You picked up your book that looked like it was about ready to give out at any moment. The spine barely holding in the pages that were falling out. I stared out the window, thinking about how the rest of my day might go while finishing my latte.

After a few more moments, I went up to the barista to get a small to-go bag for my pastry and put it in my bag.

I didn’t look back when I left. But kept the smell with me, tucked behind my ribs like a folded letter I’d never quite throw away.

Outside, the rain had let up, but the air still held the weight of it. I walked slowly, half-hoping I would feel your gaze follow me. I didn’t. That was okay. Some goodbyes don’t need witnesses.