The weekend ended and Zen returned to her usual life in the city, the noise of traffic and the pressure of deadlines pressing against her as if nothing had changed. Yet something had shifted inside her. She thought of Peter more than she wanted to, his silence replaying in her head, the sharpness of his gaze refusing to fade even when she tried to bury it beneath classes, laughter, and chatter with friends. It was strange, how a man who barely spoke to her could take up so much space in her thoughts. She told herself it was simply curiosity, that it would pass once she was back in her world of lectures and assignments. But the unease lingered, and when she walked into her part-time job at the library café one late afternoon, she found her heart unreasonably heavy as if the universe was preparing her for something she could not yet name.
The café was quiet, the air carrying the soft aroma of roasted beans and the faint rustle of pages from the library adjoining it. Zen tied her apron, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and began her shift. The place was a sanctuary for students, professors, and even strangers passing through the university. She liked it here; it grounded her, gave her something ordinary to hold onto, away from the polished life her family demanded. She was halfway through wiping down a table when the bell above the door chimed. Looking up, she froze. Peter Gamboa stood there, taller than she remembered, his presence sharp against the quiet backdrop. He wore the same look of solitude she had seen in the small town, and for a moment it felt as though the plaza had followed her back into the city.
Zen's breath caught, though she forced herself into composure, quickly turning her attention to the counter. She thought of ignoring him, but fate refused to allow such escape. Peter stepped forward, scanning the menu with an unreadable expression, his rough hands resting briefly on the wooden surface. When their eyes finally met, Zen offered a practiced smile, though her chest fluttered with something she could not contain. "What can I get you?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt. For a heartbeat he did not answer, his gaze flicking over her uniform as though trying to reconcile the girl from the dusty plaza with the one standing here now. "Black coffee," he said simply, his tone as even and unyielding as before. She nodded, hiding her unease, though her hands trembled slightly as she prepared his order. When she placed the cup before him, their fingers almost brushed, and she hated how her pulse quickened at something so small.
He thanked her quietly, barely audible, and moved to a corner table without another word. Zen watched him from a distance, restless with questions she could not ask. Why was he here? Did he study at her university, or was this coincidence? She told herself it should not matter, yet her chest refused to calm. She tried to busy herself with her work, but her eyes kept straying toward him, toward the way he sat with a book open in his hand, shoulders tense, as though he carried a burden heavier than anyone could see. For the rest of her shift, she lived between distraction and awareness, caught in the fragile space between wanting to understand him and fearing the truth of what she might find. And though neither of them spoke again, the quiet thread between them pulled tighter, binding two worlds that were never meant to touch, yet already beginning to entangle in ways neither could control.