It was raining harder than usual that Friday.Elara left the publishing house late, coat damp and hair clinging to her neck.
She ducked into the riverside tea shop for shelter — breathless, heart hammering from the sudden cold.
At first, she didn't see him.Only the scent of bergamot and wet leaves, the quiet clink of cups, the fogged glass.
Then, through the steam, her eyes landed on a figure at the corner table: sketchbook open, charcoal staining his fingertips.
Ciel.
For a heartbeat, everything inside her paused.Then stumbled.
This wasn't Tuesday.It wasn't their day.
"Elara," he breathed when he saw her, voice low, surprise flickering across his face."You're here."
"I—I was just hiding from the rain," she stammered, cheeks flushing.
They stood there, caught between instinct and fear.Finally, she slipped into the chair across from him.
For a moment, silence stretched too long.The easy rhythm they had on Tuesdays felt… distant, blurred.
Ciel's gaze traced her face, searching for that spark of recognition he always counted on.
"You're sketching," she murmured, nodding to the open book.
"I always do," he said softly. "Especially when it rains."
She reached across the table, fingers brushing the page.The drawing was half-finished: her face, but slightly wrong — as if he'd started before he saw her.
"When did you start this one?" she asked.
"Yesterday," he admitted, voice low."I didn't know if you'd show up. But I kept drawing anyway."
Her throat tightened.Outside, rain trickled down the window like slow tears.
"It feels different," she whispered."Being here… when it isn't Tuesday."
"I know," he murmured."It feels… harder to find the words."
"Maybe," she said, forcing a faint smile, "Tuesdays remember for us."
He nodded, shadows deepening in his gaze.
"Do you remember," he asked, voice careful, "the first time we sat here?"
She hesitated.A chill slid down her spine.
"Not clearly," she confessed. "I remember the smell of tea… your voice… but not the words."
Pain flickered across his face, quickly masked.
"It's all right," he whispered, though it wasn't."We're here now."
They spoke in slow, halting words — not the quiet fluency of Tuesdays, but something raw and searching.
Ciel tried to ask about her week.Elara tried to tell him about work, about Mara teasing her, about forgetting where she put her umbrella.
But the words felt fragile, as if they might crumble if pressed too hard.
When she glanced at the clock, she blinked in surprise.
"It's been almost two hours," she murmured.
"Feels shorter," he whispered, though his hand had been trembling since she sat down.
Outside, the rain slowed to a hush.Inside, the shop felt both too close and too empty.
Elara rose to leave.
"See you…" she began, voice catching.
"Tuesday," he finished for her, gently.
"Yes," she whispered. "Tuesday."
She walked out into the damp street, heart heavy.
Behind her, in the tea shop's fogged window, she saw his reflection: still seated, sketchbook open, watching her go.
And for the briefest, brightest second —she felt the faint echo of a memory that didn't belong to this life:A goodbye outside a train station, rain falling, his sketchbook pressed to her hands.
Then it was gone.And she walked on, cold wind biting her skin, carrying nothing but that ache.
Tuesday still waited, somewhere ahead.But tonight, she had tasted what it meant to find each other without it —and how terrifyingly easy it was to lose the words.