We walk in silence at first. The city feels too loud, too fast, but beside her, it softens a little.
She leads me to a small café tucked between two buildings. The kind of place I must have passed a hundred times without seeing. Inside, it's quiet. Warm. The smell of coffee and old books fills the air. She orders for both of us coffee, black. No questions, no expectations.
We sit by the window. I stare at the cup in front of me, my hands wrapped around it for the heat. I don't drink. I don't know if I can.
"I'm sorry," I finally say, my voice rough from the night. "I must look like a mess."
She shrugs gently. "You look like someone who's been through hell. That's not the same thing."
Her words land softly, but they stay with me.
I don't tell her everything. I couldn't. But the silence between us feels different than the silence of the rooftop. It's not heavy. It's not empty. It just… is.
She tells me her name, I barely hear it. My mind is too full of everything I'm trying not to feel. But I nod. I gave her mine.
For a while, we just sit there. Watching the world outside go on. People pass, cars rush by, life moves. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I don't feel entirely invisible.
"Bad night?" she asks, not pushing, just leaving the door open.
"The worst," I admit.
She nods like she's heard that before…or said it.
"I used to come here after mine," she says. "Didn't fix anything. But it helped. A little."
Her eyes meet mine. There's no pity. Just recognition. Like she knows the shape of this ache.
And I realize something I hadn't let myself believe until now: I'm not the only one who's ever felt this lost.
We don't say much after that. But when I leave, I feel different. Not better. Not healed. But different. Like maybe the world isn't completely closed off. Like maybe there are still places and people…where the silence isn't so loud.
And maybe, just maybe, that's enough for today.