They stayed in the café longer than they meant to.  

The rain turned the windows into moving mirrors, blurring the world outside until the city felt distant, almost gentle.  

Samantha stirred her coffee long after it had gone cold. Nathan watched the motion, the slow rhythm of her hand, the way her thoughts seemed to drift somewhere he couldn’t follow.  

He wanted to say something, to ask what she was thinking, but the quiet between them wasn’t asking for interruption.  

It was enough just to sit there, two people who had spent too long trying to define everything, finally letting things simply exist.  

When she finally spoke, her voice was low. “Do you ever wish things were easier?”  

He smiled faintly. “All the time.”  

“And?”  

“I don’t think we’d know what to do with easy.”  

She laughed softly. “You’re probably right.”  

“I hate that I am.”  

Her laughter lingered in the air like light, soft and human.  

When the rain eased, they left the café.  

The street glistened under the dim glow of streetlamps, puddles reflecting fragments of neon and sky.  

They walked slowly, neither ready to end the night.  

Samantha tucked her hands into her coat pockets. “You know what’s weird?”  

“Everything?”  

She smiled. “That too. But mostly—how we spend our days pretending we’re not terrified.”  

He glanced at her. “Of what?”  

“Of being wrong. Of wanting things we’re not supposed to want.”  

Nathan’s expression shifted, the kind of look that was half recognition, half understanding.  

“Maybe,” he said quietly, “we’re just tired of being careful.”  

That made her stop walking.  

He turned back, realizing she wasn’t beside him. “What?”  

“You said that like you meant it.”  

“I did.”  

She searched his face for irony and found none.  

He stepped closer, but not too close. “You don’t have to keep pretending, Sam.”  

Her throat tightened. “Neither do you.”  

A car passed, splashing water across the street, breaking the moment into fragments of sound and light.  

When silence returned, it wasn’t heavy anymore.  

The following week felt different.  

Not lighter, not easier—but quieter in a way that didn’t ache.  

Nathan and Samantha fell into a rhythm that felt new but familiar.  

Their exchanges were simple again, small acknowledgments that said more than entire conversations once had.  

“Morning,” she’d say.  

“Morning,” he’d reply, voice softer than before.  

When their eyes met, neither looked away too quickly.  

Miles noticed immediately, of course.  

“I see the emotional Wi-Fi has reconnected,” he whispered one afternoon.  

Samantha threw him a paperclip. “Go be productive.”  

“I am. I’m producing chaos.”  

“Mission accomplished.”  

He grinned, satisfied. “Whatever this is, keep it up. The office finally feels functional again.”  

She rolled her eyes, but the smile that followed stayed long after he left.  

That Friday, she found a note on her desk—small, plain, Nathan’s handwriting.  

*Coffee later? No meetings. Just coffee.*  

She read it twice before looking up.  

Through the glass, she saw him in his office, pretending to read something on his screen.  

She scribbled a reply: *Sure.*  

Then hesitated, crossed it out, and wrote: *Yes.*  

They met at the café across from the park, the same one where they’d once run for shelter.  

This time, it wasn’t raining. The air was clear, sunlight catching on the tops of buildings.  

Nathan arrived first. He stood when she entered, that quiet politeness she’d come to recognize.  

“Hi,” he said.  

“Hi.”  

They ordered their drinks and found a table near the window.  

For a while, they talked about nothing—projects, deadlines, Miles’ latest attempt to organize a “mandatory fun” event.  

Then, as if some invisible thread pulled tight, the conversation fell away.  

Nathan leaned back. “You ever think about how strange it is that people spend their lives trying to find the right words, and still get it wrong?”  

She smiled. “All the time.”  

“I keep wondering if maybe the words aren’t the problem. Maybe it’s timing.”  

“Or maybe it’s honesty.”  

“Maybe.”  

He looked at her then—really looked—and she felt the world narrow to the space between them.  

“What are we doing, Sam?” he asked softly.  

Her breath caught. “Trying not to ruin it.”  

He nodded once, like that made sense. “That’s fair.”  

The barista called someone’s name, the bell over the door rang, and the moment dissolved quietly back into the world.  

That evening, Samantha walked home through the park. The sky had turned violet, and the last light of day pooled along the path.  

Her phone buzzed once—a message from Nathan.  

*Thank you. For not giving up on conversation.*  

She smiled, thumb hovering over the keyboard.  

*You make it harder to stay quiet,* she typed.  

Then she deleted it.  

Instead, she wrote: *You’re welcome.*  

Paused.  

Added: *See you Monday.*  

Sent.  

The simplicity felt right.  

She slipped her phone into her pocket and kept walking.  

Around her, the city glowed—windows lighting one by one, a rhythm she could almost hear.  

It wasn’t certainty she felt, but something steadier.  

Hope, maybe.  

For once, she didn’t need to define it.  

She just let it exist, soft and unspoken,  

the way some truths were meant to be.