I didn’t tell her it was because the café kept my hands busy, kept my mind focused on foam patterns and receipts and order tickets instead of the ache that still curled up next to me at night. Instead, I just smiled. “I don’t mind.”

I was thankful for her hospitality, for the way she took me in without question, without hesitation. She welcomed me with open arms and an open heart. How many people would do that for you? Without asking anything in return? Without ever making you feel like you owed them something? People rarely show up for you without some sense of self-interest, even if it’s subconscious. We all expect something, even if it’s just to feel good about being the one who helps.

But her? She didn’t even want to be acknowledged for it.

She never pried. She never pushed. She gave me space—something I didn’t realize I needed. And she never asked why I left home or why I woke up some mornings with swollen eyes.

I used to hate crying. It felt like a weakness, something I had to hide, like I was failing in some way. I’d shove those feelings deep down, bury them under layers of pride and stoicism, pretending they didn’t exist. But now? I let the tears fall.

There was something liberating in the vulnerability. It felt like washing the dirt off my soul, like clearing the fog from a window I didn’t even know I was looking through.

Sometimes, you just have to put Iris by Goo Goo Dolls on loop, bury your face in the pillow, cry yourself to sleep, and remind yourself that tomorrow is a new day.

I wondered if I haunted Blake the way he haunted me.

Did he see me in the corner of his eye, flickering there like a dream too stubborn to fade? Did he ever feel my presence the way I felt his absence? Did he ever turn his head, just for a moment, convinced I was still there?

I learned to love the shadow he had left behind. When the sun set, it was all I had left to cling to, and I held onto it with a desperation only love could understand.

Aunt Mary never asked about boys. She never brought up the way my smile faltered when I heard certain songs on the radio. But she always made sure there was a mug of hot tea waiting for me after my shift. A quiet place at the counter. A gentle touch to my shoulder when I sat too long staring out the window like I was waiting for something—someone—I knew wouldn’t come.

Except I wasn’t so sure anymore. Because yesterday, I saw a number I didn’t recognize on the café’s caller ID. And tonight, at 3:17 a.m., my phone buzzed with a new text from Blake.

Just two words.

I’m close.

* * *