I was going to say something today.

Not just another note, not just another passing glance. An actual conversation. A real question. Something that would’ve broken whatever this thing is between us—this quiet, wordless exchange that only exists on scraps of yellow paper.

But I was too late.

By the time I got up to the counter, he was gone.

And I saw who he left with.

I don’t know who the guy is. A friend? Someone more than that? All I know is that something twisted in my chest when I watched them walk out together, side by side, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I shouldn’t care.

But I do.

I exhale, tapping my pen against the notepad before finally writing:

"I wanted to ask you something today, but you left early. And I saw who you left with. I won’t lie—I don’t like it."

- J

The words feel heavy in a way the others haven’t.

Still, I press the note down beside my empty cup, stand, and shove my hands into my pockets as I head for the door.

This time, I don’t glance back.

Because if I do—if I catch even a flicker of confirmation that what I saw meant something—

I don’t know what I’ll do with that.