The rain hadn't started yet, but Anaya could feel it in the air—like a breath being held just a little too long.
She sat at the corner of the café booth, fingers skimming the edge of her notebook as the others talked. Her pen made idle spirals in the margin of a page she wasn't really reading. Her ears registered the conversation—terms like market trends, customer loyalty, break-even points—but her mind drifted just beneath the words, like a current running below a calm surface.
It wasn't Satiya's presence that unsettled her, not directly. It was the ease in his voice. The way he spoke as if nothing had ever cracked between them. As if everything had always been this... civil.
He sat across the table, comfortably leaning forward as he scribbled a quick chart on a napkin, illustrating a small business revenue model. His handwriting hadn't changed. Sharp at the corners, deliberate in the curves.
"Most people assume profit equals success," he said, his tone relaxed. "But sustaining consistency—now that's the real win."
Amit nodded, clearly impressed. "Dude, you could teach our class."
Satiya gave a modest shrug. "I've picked things up. My dad's into retail and agro-export, so dinner conversations are basically crash courses. If you zone out, you miss a lecture and a half."
Anaya smiled faintly, mostly out of politeness. She hated that he was making sense. Hated that his confidence wasn't arrogance. He wasn't just parroting textbook jargon—he understood it. It flowed from him like something lived, not memorized.
And so did she, she reminded herself. She wasn't here to be impressed. She was here to finish a project. That was the deal. That was the boundary.
Still, her thoughts kept circling. Maybe it was the quiet way Satiya glanced at her now and then, without demanding anything. Maybe it was how, despite everything, he still carried that strange calmness in his presence. Or maybe it was just the weight of sitting across from someone who once knew her laughter before anyone else did... and now behaved like none of it had ever mattered.
She blinked.
Why was it so easy for him? Or did he just wear detachment better than she could?
"Anaya," Nisha's voice nudged her from the side. She looked over to find her friend raising an eyebrow. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Anaya said quickly, straightening. "Just thinking about our structure. We'll need to organize the responses we get today by topic, not just question order."
Nisha didn't press. She rarely did. That was one of the many reasons Anaya liked her—she had that rare instinct of when to speak and when to let silence be its own kindness.
The café was warm and filled with casual noise—students murmuring, the occasional hiss of the coffee machine, indie music humming gently overhead. Outside, the sky was quietly darkening. A prelude.
About an hour passed. Satiya and Amit discussed pricing strategies, how café atmospheres impact customer retention, and how seasonal trends played into purchase behavior. Anaya contributed where needed, but mostly let the boys hash out the math. She was saving her focus for the real interview.
Amit's phone buzzed. He glanced at it and stood up. "That's my friend—he's almost here. Let's get ready."
When the café owner arrived, Anaya's instincts kicked in. She transitioned smoothly into interviewer mode, her earlier thoughts temporarily folded away like laundry on a shelf. The man was articulate, patient, and answered their questions with the kind of grounded honesty that made their project feel worthwhile.
"I didn't think it'd take off, to be honest," he said at one point, smiling at the memory. "Just thought I'd serve good coffee and see what happens. Next thing I knew, we were full most evenings."
"How do you handle the competition?" Anaya asked, pen hovering.
"I don't compete. I just create a space people want to return to."
Something about that sentence struck her harder than expected.
When the interview wrapped, they thanked him, and he left with a kind smile and a promise to send over a few stats and photos from the early days of the café.
"Let's head over now," Amit said, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "I want some pictures of their kitchen setup and counter for the slides."
Satiya stood as well, stretching slightly. "You girls coming?"
Anaya exchanged a quick look with Nisha.
Nisha pulled out her phone and tapped the screen. "Actually... let's skip. The lighting's fading, and we've got enough content for today."
Anaya nodded in relief. The idea of trailing behind Satiya inside another café—his friend's café—felt like entering a room with invisible walls.
"Cool," Amit said, already half out the door. "Catch you both tomorrow."
As the boys exited, the door closed with a light chime, and the space around Anaya finally felt less suffocating.
She let out a quiet breath and glanced around. The crowd had thinned. Golden hour had come and gone, and only a few tables remained occupied by students finishing assignments or waiting out traffic.
She and Nisha began packing up. Their table was a mess of notes, pens, chargers, and empty mugs. As they moved efficiently, there was a shared rhythm in their movements—evidence of a friendship that didn't need constant dialogue to feel present.
And then, Nisha's phone rang.
"Hello?" she answered lightly. A pause. Then her voice changed. "What? Since when? Which hospital?"
Anaya looked up instantly.
Nisha ended the call and grabbed her backpack. "My brother's sick. Stomach pain. They're taking him to CityCare Hospital. I need to go now."
"Of course," Anaya said, already rising. "Don't worry about this. I'll take care of it."
"You sure?"
"Yes. Go. Text me when you reach."
Nisha gave her a hurried but grateful hug. "Thanks, yaar. I'll see you soon."
And then she was gone, her figure disappearing into the growing dusk outside.
Anaya sat back down slowly.
The silence now wasn't peaceful—it was thick.
She began gathering the remaining notes and scattered items. The scraping of paper, the rustle of folders—it all felt oddly louder without Nisha beside her.
Then her hand paused.
A wristwatch.
Not hers.
It was tucked partly under a loose napkin. Slim black leather. A faded dial with a barely visible scratch across the glass.
She picked it up, turning it gently in her fingers.
It looked like—
Before she could complete the thought—
"It's mine."
The voice cut through the silence like a sudden chord.
Anaya's breath caught. She turned slowly.
There he was.
Satiya. Just inside the doorway. A step away from the drizzle that had started outside, jacket collar slightly damp.
He took a step forward, eyes on the table. "I came back to get them."
Them.
He wasn't talking about the watch anymore.
Anaya stood frozen, the watch still resting in her palm, her fingers curling around it unconsciously. A dozen words rose to her lips—but none made it out. Her throat felt too tight.
Outside, the sky cracked open. A sharp flicker of lightning. Then, rain—steady and deliberate. It painted the windows with streaks, drumming softly on the glass like a quiet reminder of everything left unsaid.
He stood still, eyes searching her expression.
She looked away first.
"Your friend's café—done with the photos?" she asked, her voice lower than she expected.
He shook his head lightly. "No. The rain started just as we reached outside. Amit said we'll take the photos tomorrow morning." His tone was casual, but something about his eyes felt more careful.
He took a step closer and glanced at the watch in her hand.
"I came back because I realized I left it behind."
She extended it to him, but her fingers lingered for a second too long before letting go.
He took it gently, the warmth of her hand still clinging faintly to the leather.
Neither spoke.
The rain filled the space between them.
"You still wear it?" she finally said, not looking at him.
Satiya gave a slight smile. "It still works. Just a little slower than it used to be."
"Don't we all?"
A silence followed. Not heavy, not yet. Just uncertain.
"I didn't mean to act like nothing happened," he said softly, his voice stripped of all performance. "I just... didn't know where to begin."
Anaya looked at him fully now. "Maybe there's nowhere to begin from. Maybe we're just... here."
The lights inside flickered once, and the barista turned a dial on the lamp nearby.
"Want me to help you carry that stuff?" he offered.
She hesitated. The folders were already packed. The bags zipped.
"No," she said, gently. "I've got it."
He nodded, hands back in his pockets.
The rain outside thickened.
And Anaya stood there, beside a table full of words and silences, knowing that this wasn't the end of a chapter. Not yet. It was the pause before something began—again or differently, she didn't know.
But the forecast, unfinished as it was, had arrived.
And she wasn't running.
Not this time.
—
To be continued...