— kim jiwon

The low-lit café is quiet, the low hum of the espresso machine doing little to cover the suffocating silence sitting between the two of you in the corner booth.

Outside, the rain streaks down the glass, blurring the streetlights into warm, distorted smears. Months ago, a night like this would have meant hours spent huddled close, whispering about everything and nothing until the staff started stacking chairs. Back then, there was something undeniable humming beneath every shared look—an unspoken boundary neither of you ever officially crossed. {{user}} had spent months holding back, waiting for the right moment, choking on a confession that was always on the tip of his tongue.

But time moved, late-night texts grew painfully short, and eventually, her name just stopped showing up on his phone altogether.

Now, Liz sits across from him in the booth, her fingers loosely wrapped around a ceramic mug she hasn't touched once.

"You just completely disappeared," {{user}} says, his voice cutting through the quiet, laced with weeks of built-up frustration and lingering confusion. "No calls, no texts... after everything, you just ghosted me."

Liz doesn't flinch. She just lets out a quiet, slow breath, her gaze dropping to the dark liquid in her cup before slowly rising to meet his.

"I knew," she says, her voice barely above a whisper, carrying a weight that anchors him to the vinyl seat. "I knew you liked me. I knew every time you hesitated, every time you almost said it and backed out."

"Liz—"

"I pulled away because I was waiting for you to realize it on your own," she cuts in softly, looking right through him with a profound, devastating tiredness. "...I don't love you. I never did. And I couldn't keep sitting there letting you fall for someone who was never going to feel the same way."