I noticed it the second she walked in.
The slump in her shoulders. The tight way her arms wrapped around her school bag. The slight tremble in her fingers as she placed her order.
Sayuri Misaki didn't cry. Not in front of people. But that day, she was made of barely held together glass.
And it killed me.
It was a Tuesday. Rainy. Slow. Only a couple customers scattered around Café Soleil. A perfect day to finally say what I'd been holding back.
I'd spent hours rehearsing the words in my head.
"I like you, Sayuri. I've liked you for a long time."
Simple. Honest.
I'd imagined it happening a hundred different ways: while walking her home, during a shared laugh, maybe when she smiled at something dumb I said.
But I never pictured it like this.
Not when her eyes looked swollen, like she hadn't slept.
Not when her smile, the one I waited all shift to see never came.
I made her drink slower than usual. My hands didn't feel steady. Neither did my heart.
When I brought it to her table, she didn't say much. Just a quiet, "Thanks."
She didn't look at me.
Not really.
Just past me.
Like her mind was somewhere else.
Somewhere far.
I wanted to sit down beside her. To ask what happened. Who hurt her. Why she looked like she was about to disappear.
But I didn't. I stayed behind the counter, wiping down surfaces that didn't need wiping, watching her from a distance like I always did.
I don't know how long she sat there. Forty minutes, maybe more.
She didn't touch her drink much.
She didn't open her notebook like usual.
She just… stared.
Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.
I walked over, slowly. My apron still tied. A paper napkin in one hand, pretending to tidy up the table next to hers.
And then, softly, I asked, "Rough day?"
She blinked.
Her voice came out smaller than I've ever heard it.
"Something like that."
I waited. Let the silence do the asking.
Eventually, she added, "I don't really belong anywhere, do I?"
My heart snapped a little.
I wanted to tell her:
You belong here. You belong with me. I see you even when no one else does.
But her eyes were glossy, distant. Like she was trapped inside her own storm.
I sat down across from her, just for a moment.
"You don't have to belong anywhere right now," I said. "You just have to keep breathing."
She looked up at that.
Finally met my eyes.
And I swear I almost said it.
The words were right there, heavy on my tongue:
Sayuri, I like you. You make me feel real. You're the only thing that's never felt fake.
But then she smiled.
The saddest smile I've ever seen.
Like she was trying to protect me from her sadness.
And I knew.
I couldn't say it then.
Because love should never feel like pressure.
And I didn't want her to hear my heart and mistake it for a weight she had to carry.
So I just sat with her a little longer. Silent. Still.
And when she finally stood up to leave, she whispered, "Thanks for sitting with me."
I nodded.
Didn't ask more.
Didn't confess.
Didn't give her the letter I'd written in my back pocket.
Just watched her walk into the rainy street, a little straighter than before.
And told myself:
Not today. But someday.