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Tucked between two bookstores on a quiet street stood a café so small that most people walked past it without ever noticing. Inside, there were only five tables, always lit by the soft glow of mismatched lamps and the faint sound of jazz on vinyl. The walls were lined with old love letters framed like art. Some were decades old, some were typed on yellowed pages, others handwritten in messy ink.
Maya hadn’t meant to come back.
She had left this town behind three years ago with no intention of returning—no intention of seeing Leo again.
But the café still smelled the same. Like cinnamon and burnt espresso. Like memory.
She sat at the farthest table by the window, the one they used to call their corner, and wrapped her hands around a chipped ceramic mug. She didn’t expect to see him. She just wanted to sit where they used to sit.
But then the little bell over the door rang.
She didn’t look up.
She didn’t need to.
She felt it.
The shift in the air. The way the warmth rushed to her cheeks. The ache in her chest.
And then—his voice.
Soft. Familiar.
“I was wondering when you’d come home.”
She looked up. And there he was.
Leo hadn’t changed much. Still with that messy hair, that slight tilt of the head when he looked at her like she was a question he wanted to keep asking.
He didn’t sit down. Not right away.
He glanced around, eyes settling on the framed letters. “Do you think anyone ever comes back for their words?”
Maya’s lips curved into something between a smile and a sigh. “I think some words never leave.”
Leo sat across from her.
For a moment, neither said anything. The café hummed with quiet life—cups clinking, a record crackling, a barista yawning behind the counter.
Then Leo reached into his coat pocket and placed something gently on the table.
A folded note. A matchbook resting on top.
She stared at it. Recognized the matchbook immediately. From their first visit here. He had scribbled his number on it in blue pen. She had laughed and called him old-fashioned. He had called it charmingly cinematic.
Maya picked up the note. Her hands shook a little. She unfolded it.
It was her own writing.
“If we ever get lost, meet me here. I’ll be waiting.”
She blinked, looking up.
“I forgot I wrote that.”
Leo smiled. “I didn’t.”
And in that quiet moment, between the clink of cups and the flicker of candlelight, Maya reached across the table, her fingers brushing his.
Some stories didn’t need to be rewritten.
They just needed to be reopened.
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