Priya’s fingers tighten around the edge of the counter until her knuckles blanch. Every instinct screams to topple Meera’s latte onto the floor—anything to fracture that easy laughter and reclaim his gaze. But she hesitates. Too soon. Too obvious.

Behind the tinted glass, he and Meera are leaning close, heads nearly touching over some private joke, and Priya’s chest constricts. She wants to sabotage them, to remind him that laughter with Meera is cheap fun, not the exquisite ache he deserves. But another voice in her head whispers caution: patience is power.

Her vision blurs, and she slips away from the floor’s warm glow toward the dim back hallway. The door to the breakroom stands ajar, a sliver of safety. She pushes inside and shuts it behind her, leaning against the cool wood, breath steadying.

A soft knock. “Priya?” Rhea’s voice floats through the crack. “You okay in there?”

Priya exhales. “Fine.” She forces a calm, but her voice cracks on the word.

The door opens, and Rhea slips in, pulling the door closed behind her. The fluorescent light hums overhead. A chipped mug sits on the sink ledge, a stack of scrapbooks on the shelf. This place—Messy, lived‑in, honest—feels like a refuge.

Rhea folds her arms. “You want to talk?” she asks, tipping her head.

Priya crosses to the sink and turns on the tap, splashing cool water on her face. When she looks up, her eyes are bright. “I…” She pauses, swallowing the tremor of shame. “I can’t lose him.”

Rhea softens. “Priya, we talked about this.” She steps forward and rests a hand on Priya’s shoulder. “You’ve been… consumed.”

Priya closes her eyes. “I know what you told me.” She whispers it as if speaking the words aloud might break her: He’s not some trophy to collect. But her throat tightens. “I don’t want to just collect him. I want him to know me. All of me. Every scar, every fear.”

Rhea’s lips twitch in a fond, sister‑like smile. “And you will. But not like this.” She gestures around the room. “Here, you can breathe. You don’t have to be perfect princess‑of‑the‑café. You’re allowed to be… human.”

Priya sinks onto the vinyl bench, tugging at her apron. “I fantasize about him,” she admits, voice raw. “God, I picture—” Her cheeks flame. Rhea’s grin widens.

“Fantasizing about him, huh, Priya?” Rhea teases, but her eyes are gentle. “I’d say ‘welcome to the club,’ but your brand of obsession is next‑level.”

Priya lets out a strange, soul-deep laugh—unexpected, oddly charming, like it slipped out before she could stop it. “I can’t help it. Every time he sips that chai, I…” She trails off, trying to catch her breath. “I see him vulnerable. It’s like a switch flips. I need him to feel that way only with me.”

Rhea perches on the edge of the bench. “You’re in love,” she says simply.

The confession knocks the wind out of Priya. She nods once, sharply. “I’m terrified,” she whispers. “If he sees me like this—like everyone else—he’ll run.”

Rhea shakes her head. “No. If he sees your truth—your real, messy, desperate self—that’s the only way he’ll truly stay.” She pulls out her phone and flicks to a group chat. “See, your friends—they’re already here for you.” She holds up the screen to show a string of supportive messages:

• Anika: “You got this, P! 💕”
• Sara: “Don’t let your fear rob you of happy.”
• Dev: “When’s the next shift? We’ll come by after work.”

Priya’s chest warms. She never realized how many of them cared beyond the Sunday brunch pastries and weekend study sessions. “They’re…vouching for me?” she murmurs.

Rhea nods. “Because they know you’re worth it. But you need to back off the sabotage. Let things unfold. He’s curious—keep feeding that, not fear.”

Priya watches a bead of water slide down the sink’s porcelain lip. “Okay,” she says, voice firmer. “No more under‑the‑table tricks.”

Rhea’s face lights up. “Good. Now, come on—there’s a fresh batch of jasmine macarons waiting out there, and you know I can’t survive without at least three.”

Priya smiles for the first time in hours. “Fine. Three.” She stands, smoothing her apron, the fear receding into determined excitement.

Rhea cracks the door and peeks out. “Ready?”

Priya takes one last breath in the safe hush of the breakroom. “Ready.”

And with that, she steps back onto the café floor—no longer a storm contained but the calm at its eye, heart open, armed with honesty and the fierce hope that he’ll choose her when he sees her real self.

Priya straightens her apron one last time, smoothing the creases as she steps through the breakroom door. The café’s soft lantern light washes over her, warm and inviting—and hers to command. She crosses the floor with a quiet purpose, every footfall measured. Her friends’ supportive smiles flicker in her mind, grounding her resolve. At the table by the window, he sits alone, the sketch card curled in his palm. Priya breathes in, tasting cardamom and possibility.

She’s back.

And this time, she’s ready.

Meera glances at her phone and jolts upright. “Oh shoot—I forgot I have to pick up my dress for tonight’s gala at the Waterside Pavilion,” she announces, voice fluttering between excitement and panic. She tosses her half‑finished croissant onto the plate. “I need to run—stylist’s waiting with my emerald satin dress, and if I don’t get there in the next twenty minutes, they’ll charge me double.” She slides off her bench, tossing a kiss in his direction. “Text me tonight—I want front‑row updates on my outfit, okay?” With that, she’s gone, umbrella under one arm and phone pressed to her ear, leaving him alone in the soft jazz glow of the café.

He settles back into the corner seat, watching the door swing closed on Meera’s designer stilettos. The afterglow of her cat‑meme mania fades, and suddenly the café feels emptier—quieter than before. He glances down at the sketch card in his palm, then out at the rain‑streaked window. Now that he’s truly alone here, he realizes the space isn’t an ending but an invitation...