The week after the fire exit moment, things were quiet again — not distant, just… softer. He didn't bring it up. Neither did I.
We went back to late-night chats, shared playlists, and random jokes. The kind of conversations where nothing is said outright but everything is hinted at. The ones that make you question if silence could mean something too.
Then on a Wednesday, right as I was packing up for the day, I heard his voice behind me.
"You free?"
I turned, surprised. "Now?"
He nodded. "Come with me. I want to show you something."
We didn't go far — just a small café two blocks from the office. The kind with warm lights and mismatched furniture, half-empty on weeknights. We sat by the window. I ordered hot chocolate. He got a black Americano, of course.
No small talk. No work talk. Just this strange, comfortable silence between us like we didn't need to pretend anymore.
"I like this place," I said, stirring my drink slowly. "I've passed by it a hundred times but never went in."
He shrugged. "Felt like a Mara kind of place."
My heart flipped. "What does that mean?"
"Warm. Slightly chaotic. But… nice."
I rolled my eyes, laughing. "Wow. Slightly chaotic?"
He smirked. "You cried in a fire exit last week."
"Fair."
We stayed a little longer than we should've. Talked about random things — old teachers, the music we used to like, how he used to play the guitar but doesn't anymore. I told him about my brief obsession with journaling. He asked if I still wrote.
"Sometimes," I said, avoiding his eyes. "Mostly when I don't know what I'm feeling."
"Do you know what you're feeling now?" he asked suddenly.
I blinked at him. My mouth opened. Then closed.
And just like that, the moment found me before I was ready.
"I think I like you," I said, voice soft but steady. "But I'm not sure yet. I just… I wanted to say it."
I looked down at my mug, fingers tightening around the handle. I wasn't asking for anything. I wasn't hoping, even. I just needed to say it out loud — for myself.
Elián didn't speak for a long moment.
When I finally glanced up, he was watching me — not with surprise, but with something unreadable. Calm. Unbothered.
Maybe a little unsure, too.
"I don't know what to say," he said, voice low, careful. "I didn't expect that."
I nodded slowly. "That's okay. You don't have to say anything."
He leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee like we hadn't just peeled a layer off our skin.
"That's the thing about you," he said eventually. "You say things people would take years to admit."
I gave a weak smile. "Maybe that's my chaos."
"Maybe," he said.
And then — he changed the subject.
Just like that. Back to normal.
We walked back to the office quietly. Our hands didn't touch. He didn't look at me the same way, but he didn't look away either.
When we said goodbye, it was casual — like nothing had happened. But something had. At least for me.
After work, Isla and I sat on the fire exit stairs behind the building — our unofficial safe space. The kind of place where secrets felt less heavy and takeout tasted better. The air smelled like asphalt and soy sauce, and the city hummed somewhere below us.
I stared at my chopsticks, hovering mid-air. "I told him I liked him."
Isla looked up from her noodles and blinked once. "What did he say?"
"He said… he didn't know what to say."
She didn't flinch. Just passed me a siomai like it was medicine. "Okay. Points for honesty. But also? You deserve someone who does know."
I sighed. "It's not that simple."
"It never is," she said, mouth full.
I leaned back against the cold concrete wall. "It's like… I've dreamed of him before. Even before we met. I used to see him in these dreams — slow dancing, holding hands like we already had a story. Like I loved him in another life."
Isla paused, chopsticks in midair. "Okay , you sound crazy. but That's either soulmates or a horror movie."
"I know how it sounds," I said, softer now. "But it's real. Or it feels real. Like I already love him, even if I don't know how or why."
She leaned her head back, and exhaled. "Look, I believe in past lives. I do. But you're in this one now. And in this life, you get to choose — do you want someone who feels like a question or someone who feels like a safe place?"
I didn't answer. Just stared at the wall like it might give me one.
Isla handed me her water bottle. "Whatever you choose, I'm here. Always. But promise me one thing?"
I looked at her.
"Don't lose yourself trying to be someone's cosmic echo."
The sting hit fast — not from her words, but from how much I needed to hear them.
I nodded. "Okay."
It wasn't a promise.
But it was close enough.
And for now, that was all I had to give.