The café felt like a quiet pause in the middle of everything.
Warmth wrapped around me in soft layers, not overwhelming, just enough to contrast the cold pressing faintly against the windows. Outside, the sky stretched wide and heavy, painted in muted grays that hinted at something waiting to fall. Snow. Not yet—but close. So close it felt like the world itself was holding its breath.
I sat in the far corner, where the noise softened into something distant, almost blurred. My fingers curled around the ceramic cup, the heat sinking slowly into my skin, grounding me in a way I didn't question. The coffee was slightly bitter, but I let it linger, taking slow, deliberate sips as if stretching the moment out.
My other hand moved absently through my hair, fingers brushing against my scalp, a quiet, repetitive motion that felt more like reassurance than habit. Everything felt… still.
Too still.
But not in a bad way.
For once, the stillness didn't suffocate me.
It felt… peaceful.
My eyes drifted back to the window. The clouds had thickened, pressing lower now, like they were ready to break open at any second. I imagined the first snow—how it would fall lightly at first, hesitant, almost unsure of itself, before slowly covering everything in soft white.
Clean.
Untouched.
A beginning.
And something inside me ached at the thought.
Because beginnings meant something had ended.
And not everything ended gently.
The soft chime of the café door cut through the quiet.
I didn't turn immediately. People came and went—it wasn't unusual. The sound blended into the background like everything else.
But then—
A voice.
Bright. Familiar. Alive.
It hit something deep before my mind could even catch up.
My head turned.
And everything in me stilled.
Angela.
She stood near the entrance, brushing a bit of cold off her sleeves, her presence instantly filling the space without even trying. Her energy hadn't changed—not even a little. It radiated from her, warm and effortless, like sunlight breaking through clouds.
For a moment, I just stared.
My chest tightened, something sudden and overwhelming rising up before I could stop it. She was real. Right there. Not a memory. Not something distant.
Real.
My hand lifted slowly, almost hesitant, before I waved.
Her eyes moved across the room—
Then found me.
And everything shifted.
"EVIE?!"
Her voice burst out of her, loud, sharp with disbelief, with relief, with something that made my chest ache even more.
I was already standing.
And then she was running.
By the time she reached me, there was no space left between us. Her arms wrapped around me tightly, almost desperately, and I felt the force of it—the way she held on like she was afraid I might slip away again.
I hugged her back just as tightly.
And something in me cracked.
We both laughed, breathless, overwhelmed, the sound uneven and real, breaking through everything that had been sitting quietly inside me.
"Oh my God—" she pulled back just enough to look at me, her hands immediately finding my arms, gripping them, as if she needed to confirm I was actually there. "Where have you been?!"
Her eyes moved over my face quickly, searching, scanning, taking everything in all at once.
"I—"
"Four months, Evie!" she cut in, her voice trembling now, emotion spilling out faster than she could contain it. "Four months and nothing! No messages, no calls—nothing! I thought—" her voice broke slightly, her breath catching before she forced herself to continue, "I didn't know what to think."
Her hands moved again, almost unconsciously, patting my arm, my shoulder, like she was checking for something—checking if I was okay, if I was whole.
And I just stood there.
Letting her.
Because I didn't deserve that kind of care.
And yet—
I needed it.
"I'm sorry," I said softly, the words catching slightly in my throat. "I didn't mean to make you worry."
Her eyes snapped back to mine, sharp, emotional. "Then what happened?" she asked, quieter now, but heavier. "Where were you?"
The question settled between us, thick and unavoidable.
I held her gaze for a second too long, something flickering behind my eyes before I forced it down.
"Let's sit," I said gently.
She hesitated, like she wanted to keep asking, but she nodded.
We moved back to the table, sitting across from each other. The space between us felt smaller now, filled with everything that hadn't been said.
She leaned forward immediately, her attention completely locked onto me, her expression open but tense, waiting.
Waiting for the truth.
I wrapped my hands around my cup again, the warmth suddenly feeling too sharp, too real against my skin.
"I had some family problems," I said slowly, carefully. "Things I needed to deal with."
The words felt thin.
Incomplete.
But they were all I could give.
Her brows pulled together, concern deepening in her eyes. "That serious?"
I nodded once. "Yeah."
She searched my face again, longer this time, like she was trying to read everything I wasn't saying.
And for a moment—
I thought she might see it.
But then she softened.
"I'm just glad you're okay," she said quietly.
Something twisted painfully in my chest.
Because I wasn't.
But I smiled anyway.
"Me too."
The silence that followed was softer now, but heavier in a different way.
"I won't be here long," I said, breaking it.
Her expression changed instantly. "What do you mean?"
"I'm leaving," I said, forcing myself to hold her gaze. "Going overseas. I'll be there for a while."
The words landed slowly.
Too slowly.
"You just got back," she said, her voice smaller now.
"I know."
"And now you're leaving again?"
There was something fragile in her tone.
Something that made it harder to breathe.
"I don't have a choice," I said quietly.
Her eyes filled almost immediately, the shine of tears catching the light as she blinked rapidly. "You always do this," she whispered. "You disappear… and then you come back just to leave again."
Each word hit deeper than the last.
"I'll stay in touch," I said quickly, leaning forward slightly. "I promise. I won't just disappear again."
She looked at me like she wanted to believe me.
Like she was trying to hold onto that promise.
"You better," she said, her voice breaking despite her attempt to steady it. "Because I can't—" she stopped, swallowing hard, shaking her head slightly. "I can't lose you like that again."
Lose you.
The words echoed louder than they should have.
And for a second—
I couldn't respond.
Because she already had.
She just didn't know it yet.
So I smiled.
Soft. Careful.
"You won't."
It felt like a lie.
"Okay," she said suddenly, wiping her eyes and forcing a breath out. "No. No sad mood. I refuse."
I blinked slightly. "What?"
"If you're leaving," she said, her voice gaining strength again, "then we're doing this properly."
I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at my lips. "And what does 'properly' mean?"
Her eyes lit up.
"We're going out."
The karaoke bar was loud in a way that felt almost overwhelming at first.
Music pulsed through the air, voices overlapping, laughter spilling freely from every direction. Lights shifted across the room in soft colors, flickering against faces, against walls, against everything.
Angela fit into it instantly.
She always did.
"This is it," she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me in with a grin that was impossible to resist. "This is how you say goodbye."
Her warmth, her energy—it pulled me along before I could think too much.
We sat, ordered drinks, started talking again like no time had passed at all.
And for a while—
It felt real.
Easy.
Safe.
She laughed loudly, leaned into me, told stories with her whole body, her hands moving, her expressions shifting like she was painting every moment in the air.
I watched her.
Really watched her.
Trying to memorize it.
The way her eyes crinkled when she laughed.
The way her voice lifted when she got excited.
The way she looked at me like I was still the same person she had always known.
"Your turn!" she suddenly said, pushing the mic toward me.
I froze. "No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Evie."
I shook my head, already laughing, but she didn't let up.
And somehow—
I ended up singing.
Badly.
Completely off-key.
But she laughed so hard she nearly cried, and I found myself laughing too, the sound breaking out of me in a way that felt unfamiliar and… real.
For a moment—
Everything felt light.
Like nothing else existed outside that room.
Like I wasn't carrying something heavy inside me.
Like I wasn't about to leave.
Angela leaned back at one point, watching me with a soft, almost emotional smile. "I missed you," she said quietly.
The words landed gently.
But deeply.
"I missed you too," I replied.
And that—
That was the truth.
But even in the middle of laughter, of music, of warmth—
There was something else.
A quiet awareness sitting just beneath it all.
That this moment—
This happiness—
Was fragile.
Temporary.
Slipping through my fingers even as I held onto it.
And as I looked at her, smiling, alive, completely unaware—
Something inside me ached in a way I couldn't explain.
Because I knew something she didn't.
Something I couldn't say.
Something that made this feel less like a goodbye—
And more like the last time.