I don't know why I kept going back.
Each night I told myself: don't. Stay home. Sleep. But sleep wouldn't come. So I walked. And always, I ended up at that same corner table, in that same flickering café light.
She was there again. Always there. But she didn't feel safe. She felt like a mirror I couldn't look away from.
This time, I spoke first.
"Do you ever feel like you're already gone, but no one notices?"
She didn't answer right away. Just watched me, like she was measuring how much of me was left.
"I used to," she said finally. "But then I stopped waiting for people to notice."
"How?"
She shrugged. "I realized it didn't matter."
Her words sank into me like stones. I thought maybe I wanted comfort. But no, I wanted truth. And that was it.
"Do you think," I said, voice low, "that some of us are just... not meant to stay?"
Her eyes flickered. "I think some of us weren't given the tools to stay. And we don't all find them in time."
I stared at my coffee. It had gone cold.
"I don't know what I'm doing anymore," I whispered. "Every day feels like I'm walking through fog. And I keep thinking, what's the point? What am I even holding on for? It doesn't matter. I didn't matter to them. I don't matter here. I don't matter to anyone."
Her voice was soft, but firm. "You mattered enough for me to notice."
I almost laughed, a bitter, empty sound. "You don't even know me."
"Maybe not. But I see you."
And that hit harder than I wanted it to. Because I didn't want to be seen, not like this. Not as this hollow, broken thing sitting at her table.
I felt my chest tighten, my throat burn.
"I hate this," I said. "I hate feeling like this. I hate waking up. I hate remembering. I hate hoping for nothing."
She nodded, slow. "I know."
And for a long time, neither of us spoke. The world outside kept moving — bright, fast, full of things that felt so far away from us.
Inside, I felt like I was already gone.
And still, I sat there. Still breathing. Still pretending I wasn't already lost.