The winter had almost passed, but not from within me.
Days slipped by like pages torn too quickly from a diary—cold, quiet, and mostly empty. She had tried to reach out, more than once. A casual message, a long stare from across the corridor, or the familiar ringtone that I let ring out. But I wasn't ready. Not for answers. Not even for a conversation. What could I have said? That I still carried her like oxygen? That even if she had chosen someone else, she still felt like home?
Then one evening, after months of silence, my phone buzzed.
Her name.
"Can we meet?"
No explanation. No small talk. Just those three words that hit like a memory I wasn't ready to feel again.
I don't know what pushed me to say yes. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe hope. Or maybe I was tired of carrying everything unspoken inside me like old photographs no one looks at but can't throw away.
It was the same café where we used to sit—corner seat, two mugs of coffee, and her obsession with chocolate pastries. The fairy lights were still there, dim and warm, like tiny stars trying to eavesdrop. I reached first. I was early. Nervous. Staring at the entrance like a soldier waiting for war.
And then she walked in.
Time didn't stop. It just slowed down—like the world wanted me to look at her just a little longer.
She looked different. Not in appearance, but in presence. Like someone who had walked through fire and come out quietly glowing. She sat in front of me, and for a minute, neither of us spoke. The coffee came. We didn't touch it.
Finally, she broke the silence.
Finally, she asked her last set of questions.
The questions that always remained unanswered!