When I thought Noah would come to the café today, I was wrong.
The cafe hums with life in the usual rhythm—steam hissing, the clink of cups, low conversations weaving with soft jazz—but something feels off. Or maybe it's just me. I keep expecting to see him stroll in like he usually does around noon, that slow, deliberate way he moves, like the world won't rush him.
Even though I keep glancing at the door, Noah doesn't come.
I don't know why I expected it—he never said he would. Maybe I just got used to the quiet rhythm of his presence in this place, that calm steadiness, the way his voice settles into the background of the day like low tide.
