Vanessa
The air outside feels different—cooler, with that scent of distant rain that promises but doesn't deliver. Mason walks quickly, hands in his pockets, head down, like he's trying to erase the echo of the café conversation. I'm not sure why I'm following him. Maybe it's curiosity. Or maybe it's the unease left by his gaze, heavy with things he never says.
I quicken my pace until I'm walking beside him. For a few seconds, there's only the rhythm of our shoes on the pavement and the muffled hum of the city. Mason doesn't stop, but he doesn't speed up either—as if silently allowing me to be there.
I wonder if I should say something, offer a light remark to break the tension. But the night feels made of silences and unanswered questions.
Finally, Mason stops at a corner where the streetlight barely outlines his silhouette. He leans against the wall, exhales slowly, and without looking at me, says in a low voice:
"Do you ever feel like everything's happening around you, but none of it really includes you?"
The question hits me—unexpected and sincere. I could joke, but something in his tone invites something else. Mason doesn't talk much. But tonight, his words feel like they've been waiting for the right moment. And somehow, I arrived just in time.
I step closer, searching for his eyes in the shadows, and reply, almost in a whisper:
"Sometimes. But sometimes, all it takes is someone noticing you—even from a distance."
Mason stays still, as if weighing my words. Then, finally, he lifts his gaze, and a small smile—just a flicker—crosses his face.
"Thanks," he says. And for the first time all day, his silence doesn't feel uncomfortable. It feels like a promise of something different. Something unnamed, but beginning to take shape in the night air.
We stay there, on the edge between the café and the night, and time stretches. The world shrinks to that wordless corner.
I start noticing details that didn't fit the scene before: the way water pools between the cobblestones, the scent of damp earth, the breeze carrying the distant echo of a saxophone lost somewhere in the city. Mason, leaning against the wall, fiddles with the keychain hanging from his pocket, like he's searching for invisible answers in its texture.
"You know," he says after a while, "sometimes I think we're like those raindrops that never reach the ground. The ones that evaporate before becoming part of something bigger."
I think about that image. And on impulse, I step a little closer—close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body, a heat that defies the chill of the night.
"But there are nights," I reply, certain, "when sharing the silence is enough to feel included in something—even if it's just this corner."
Mason looks at me, this time without holding back. And the flicker in his eyes is clearer now, like the rain has finally kept its promise, and everything else fades into the background.
"Let's go back to the café. I'm sure the others are worried," I say, though I don't really want to leave this small space that feels so ours—in a city full of moments like this, told in silence and hidden away, leaving small footprints in the grand landscape of things.
Mason looks at me like he wants to say more. But in the end, he just nods softly, and we walk back in comfortable silence.
As we walk, the rain begins to fall—gentle and persistent. Not a storm, not drama. Just water, like the sky also wants to say something without words.
Back at the café, Wenn stands at the door, phone in hand. When she sees us, she smiles with her usual warmth.
"I was about to call you guys. We thought you'd run off without us," she jokes, her voice playful, her wink hinting at unspoken secrets.
And to my surprise, Mason—who looks like a 6'3" (1.90m) giant next to my 5'2" (1.59m)—is silent and red-faced, like a tomato. Probably the most surreal part of my trip so far. If someone had told me at the start of the week that this guy, who always seems unshakable, would now look like he wants to hide behind a table, I'd never have believed it. That's usually me.
But to my surprise—for the second time tonight—I start laughing. And I don't know if that makes things better or worse, because now Mason's face loses all color, and his eyes are trying to decode the reason behind my laughter in a thousand silent ways.
Before he can say anything, Connor chimes in:
"Guys, shall we go? The party starts in less than an hour, and we still have things to prep."
And almost instantly, Mason walks out of the café.
We all follow him.