Chapter Text
Akk was absently scrolling through his phone, the screen casting a soft glow on his tired face as he waited for the elevator. His shift had just ended, and the fatigue in his limbs reminded him how long the day had been.
Outside, rain drizzled steadily, painting the glass doors with streaks of silver. Not eager to get soaked on the way to the parking lot, he decided to make a quick stop for coffee first — something warm, something to help him unwind before the drive home.
The elevator dinged. He stepped in, barely lifting his eyes from the screen, only to briefly register that someone else was already inside. The figure stood still, hunched slightly, a hoodie pulled low over their head, hiding their face.
There was something vaguely familiar about them, but Akk brushed off the thought. It was late. He was tired. Maybe his mind was playing tricks.
The elevator doors slid open on the ground floor, revealing the cozy glow of the coffee shop just across the lobby. As he stepped out, he noticed the hooded stranger heading in the same direction. They both entered the café, the soft hum of indie music and the scent of roasted beans enveloping them in a kind of quiet intimacy.
They joined the short line. Akk stood behind, casually observing. Then, the stranger stepped forward and said, in a voice that made the world around Akk fall silent:
"One Spanish latte, please."
Akk froze. The voice struck him like a sudden gust of cold wind.
He knew that voice.
Every syllable, every intonation stirred memories he thought he had buried. His gaze shifted up, heart pounding, and now, from the back, the curve of the shoulders, the subtle way the person shifted their weight… it all came rushing back.
No... It couldn't be.
Could it?
The barista smiled politely. “Name for the order, please?”
"Ayan.”
Akk’s mind reeled.
Eight months. It had been almost eight months since he last saw Ayan — in person, at least.
There had been the occasional glimpse through mutual friends’ posts, a tagged photo here and there, but even that had stopped recently. He’d distanced himself from social media, trying to move on, trying not to fall into the familiar trap of watching Ayan live a life that no longer included him.
And now, without warning, Ayan was right in front of him — close enough to touch, yet still wrapped in that hoodie and silence, like a memory half-remembered.
Akk’s heart was thudding in his chest, loud enough that he wondered if the cashier could hear it. He tried to focus, tried to calm the storm inside him.
But his mind was spinning.
“Why is he here? Was that really Ayan? Did he recognize me? Does he even want to?”
When it was finally his turn, the barista greeted him with a polite smile. “Hi, what can I get started for you?”
He opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come out the way he rehearsed in his head. His usual order was a hot Americano — no sugar, just like he liked things lately: bitter and strong. But instead, what slipped out was…
“Uh... one caffè latte, iced.”
His voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat and forced a small smile, eyes darting toward the side counter where Ayan now stood, waiting quietly, arms folded, as if this were just another ordinary day.
The barista nodded and repeated the order. “Name for the call out?”
Akk hesitated.
There was a strange weight in the air — not heavy, but sharp. Like something unspoken was hanging between two people in a room full of white noise.
“…Akk,” he finally said.
He stepped to the side, pretending to check something on his phone, but he wasn’t fooling anyone — not even himself.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ayan shift slightly, the hoodie still up, but his posture a little more alert now. Like maybe… he had recognized him too.
They stood in silence, just a few feet apart, yet separated by eight months of distance — and everything that came with it.
The barista called out, “Spanish latte for Ayan!”
Ayan stepped forward, thanked her quietly, and turned — only then did he lower his hood.
Their eyes met.
Akk’s breath caught in his throat.
It was him. Older, maybe. A little leaner. But unmistakably Ayan.
For a second, Ayan looked surprised. Not shocked, not dramatic. Just… still. Like he was absorbing the moment, calibrating reality against memory.
Then, Ayan nodded. Subtle. Measured.
And just like that, Ayan turned to leave.
Akk didn’t move.
His drink hadn’t even been made yet, but that wasn’t what was holding him back. It was the memory of everything unsaid — and the question hanging in the air like fog.
Should I say something?
But Akk just stood there.
Even after Ayan walked out — latte in hand, hoodie pulled back up — Akk remained standing near the pick-up counter, heart still stubbornly beating in his ears.
The rain outside hadn’t let up. In fact, it sounded louder now, heavier against the windows, as if the sky itself was echoing the weight inside his chest.
He could leave. He probably should — but his legs wouldn’t budge. Instead, he drifted to an empty corner table, the kind tucked away near the window where no one really looked. He sat down slowly, pretending to scroll through his phone again, though the screen was just a blur.
It’s still raining, he told himself. Not safe to drive yet.
He knew it was a weak excuse, but he leaned into it anyway. He let the hum of the café settle over him, tried to drown the sharp edges of memory in the clatter of cups and low music.
Eventually, his coffee came. Iced, like he never liked it. He sipped it anyway, the coldness grounding him in some way.
Time passed. People came and went. Ayan didn’t return.
Akk let out a quiet breath and stared out the rain-speckled window, the world outside a blur of headlights and shifting umbrellas. His fingers absentmindedly tapped against the paper cup, restless with thoughts he had no intention of voicing.
He was still thinking about the moment their eyes met. Not dramatic, not intense. Just… still. Like two people frozen in the space between what was and what could never be again.
He ended up ordering dinner — nothing fancy, just a panini and a side salad. Something to justify the extra time he was spending there. Something to help him pretend that he was just waiting out the weather and not unraveling at the seams.
As he ate, his mind wandered, not to Ayan now, but to then. To the day they broke up.
It wasn’t messy. No shouting, no slammed doors. Just quiet honesty. The kind that hurts more because it’s true.
They sat across from each other in Akk’s apartment, barely touching the takeout they’d ordered. It was Ayan who had spoken first, his voice soft but steady.
“We’re growing in different directions,” he said. “And I don’t think we know how to meet in the middle anymore.”
Akk remembered nodding, remembered the ache blooming in his chest, the words he couldn’t say because they wouldn’t change anything.
It was no one’s fault. They just wanted different things. Different timelines. Different futures.
Then came the question — the one that stuck with him more than anything else:
“Can we still be friends?”
Akk had tried to smile. Tried to say yes. But the truth was, he couldn’t. He didn’t know how to be near Ayan and not ache for everything they lost. So, slowly, quietly, he slipped away. Stopped replying. Muted stories. Avoided places.
It was the only way he knew how to survive the aftermath.
Now here he was, months later, sipping a drink he didn’t like, in a café he never usually stayed in, because Ayan had walked in — and walked out — like a ghost from a chapter he never really finished.
He glanced at the door again.
Still no sign of Ayan.
He told himself that was a good thing.
So why did it feel like something inside him had just started unraveling all over again?
–
The next morning, everything felt strangely normal.
Akk sat at his desk, nursing a steaming cup of coffee — hot, bitter, just the way he liked it. His inbox was full, and the group chat was already buzzing with Monday energy.
Campaign deadlines were coming up, and the marketing team was, as usual, in slight chaos. He welcomed it. The noise, the urgency — it was a good distraction.
Until Jamie, from HR casually mentioned during the team huddle, “Oh, by the way, someone new started in the creative department this week. Ayan, I think? Came highly recommended.”
Akk didn’t hear the rest of the update.
His stomach dropped so fast he almost thought the floor had moved beneath him. His fingers tightened around his coffee cup. He blinked. Maybe it was a different Ayan. It had to be.
Right?
But then, halfway through his third task of the morning, his team lead poked her head in.
“Marketing will be looping in Creative for the Reyes pitch,” she said. “They’re sending someone over for a briefing. Be nice.”
Akk didn’t think much of it.
Twenty minutes later, someone knocked lightly on the doorframe of the glass-walled meeting room where Akk was setting up the deck.
He looked up.
And there he was.
Ayan.
No hoodie this time — just a neatly pressed shirt, sleeves rolled slightly up, hair still damp from the rain, or maybe the morning rush. He looked… exactly the same and completely different.
The kind of different that came from space, time, and stories Akk would never get to hear.
Their eyes met.
And for a second, silence filled the room despite the murmur of office chatter outside.
“Oh,” Ayan said, blinking. “Hey.”
It wasn’t quite a surprise in his voice — more like cautious acknowledgment. Like he’d already known Akk was here, but hadn’t expected to bump into him this soon. Or maybe not like this — alone in a room, no buffers, no witnesses.
Akk cleared his throat and stood up a little straighter, pretending to adjust something on the screen.
“…Hey.”
The air was stiff with all the things they weren’t saying. Akk tried to keep it professional — this is work, just work — but his hands betrayed him, slightly too fast, slightly too tense.
“You’re… with Creative now,” Akk said, as if he hadn’t already pieced that together the second Ayan walked in.
Ayan nodded, offering a polite, practiced smile. “Yeah. Just transferred. Started yesterday.”
Of course. Yesterday. The same day he showed up at that café, ordered the Spanish latte, and looked like a memory Akk hadn’t signed up to revisit.
“Well. Welcome, I guess,” Akk said, his tone caught somewhere between formal and strained.
“Thanks.” Ayan shifted on his feet. “Didn’t expect to run into you this soon.”
“Neither did I.”
Silence again.
Akk gestured to the chairs. “We can… get started?”
“Sure,” Ayan said, taking a seat — not across from Akk, but beside him, close enough to catch a faint trace of the cologne Akk once bought him as a birthday gift. He didn’t know if Ayan remembered.
But Akk did.
He launched into the briefing, voice clipped but steady, pointing to slide transitions and campaign objectives. Ayan listened, nodding, taking notes in a clean notebook.
He asked good questions, gave sharp feedback — he always had an eye for that. Akk hated how familiar it felt to collaborate with him, even now.
When the meeting wrapped, Ayan closed his notebook and stood slowly.
“Thanks for the walk-through,” he said, polite again.
“Sure,” Akk replied, already turning toward his laptop.
But just before leaving, Ayan paused at the door.
“Akk,” he said quietly.
Akk looked up.
“I wasn’t trying to… I mean. I didn’t know you were still here. I didn’t come to… disrupt anything.”
Akk blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. A small crack in the polished professionalism.
“I know,” he said, because he did. Ayan was never the type to stir drama. He just existed, and sometimes that was enough to cause a storm in Akk’s carefully rebuilt quiet.
Ayan nodded, lips pressed into a thin line, then walked out.
Akk exhaled only after the door clicked shut behind him.
This was going to be harder than he thought.
–
The meeting room felt a little too small after Ayan left.
Akk tried to get back to work, but his focus kept slipping through the cracks. His inbox was a blur. His fingers hovered over the keyboard for minutes at a time, unmoving. Eventually, he gave up pretending.
He grabbed his ID and coffee cup — now cold — and slipped out of the office. No one stopped him; everyone was too deep in their own whirlwind of deadlines and calls.
The balcony on the 14th floor was one of the only places in the building that felt remotely calm. It wasn’t fancy — just a simple stretch of concrete and railing, with a faint breeze that carried the scent of city dust and rain.
He leaned against the railing and looked out.
Bangkok sprawled beneath him, alive as always. Cars honking somewhere in the distance, skytrains snaking past high-rises, the faint shimmer of rain still hanging in the clouds. The city never really stopped — and somehow, that was both comforting and exhausting.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
It felt strange, knowing Ayan was here. In the same building. Maybe just a few floors away. Working. Breathing the same office air. It wasn’t painful, exactly. Just… surreal.
He wasn’t going to lie — he missed Ayan.
Not in the gut-wrenching, heartbreak-still-fresh kind of way. It was softer now. Quieter. Like an echo that shows up unexpectedly in still moments, reminding you of a song you used to know by heart.
He wondered, not for the first time, if Ayan was seeing someone new.
Probably, he thought. Ayan had always been effortlessly charming — a natural warmth that drew people in without trying.
He could walk into any room and make it feel like the sun followed him in. It wouldn’t be surprising if someone else had fallen into his orbit by now.
Akk tried not to let that thought dig too deep.
He was mid-sigh when someone stepped up beside him.
He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
“What are you thinking?” Achi’s voice was casual but curious, laced with that older-brother tone he always carried.
Akk straightened slightly, surprised. “Oh, P’Achi.”
Achi gave him a sideways glance. “You’ve got that face. The one that says your brain is doing gymnastics.”
Akk chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Do I?”
“Always,” Achi said. He sipped from his tumbler and leaned his elbows on the railing. “Saw you in the meeting room earlier. Was that the new Creative guy?”
Akk hesitated for half a beat. “…Yeah. That was Ayan.”
“That Ayan?”
Akk nodded, trying to play it off. “He just transferred. Didn’t know he was coming.”
Achi let out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s... something.”
Akk didn’t answer. He just stared out at the skyline again.
After a moment, Achi added, “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
Akk paused, then said softly, “I don’t know.”
Achi was quiet for a bit before saying, “You don’t have to know today.”
Akk let that settle. He appreciated Achi — the way he never pried too much, just stood beside you and made the silence easier to carry.
The breeze picked up slightly. The clouds had started to clear. Below, the city moved on.
Maybe they all would, too.
Eventually.
–
Ayan sat at his desk, fingers paused mid-keystroke, eyes unfocused on the screen in front of him.
The creative department's floor was bright, open-concept, with brainstorming boards and moodboards pinned to every wall. Voices echoed — laughter, brainstorming, the hum of music from someone’s speaker.
Normally, Ayan loved this energy. He fed off it. But today, he was somewhere else entirely.
He hadn’t expected it. Any of it.
He knew the company name when he applied, of course. Knew Akk used to work there when they were still together. But he assumed — stupidly — that Akk had moved on. New job, new life, new… something. It had been almost eight months. People change in eight months.
But there he was, just across the meeting room table, flipping through slides like he hadn’t once fallen asleep with his head on Ayan’s chest, talking about campaigns and deadlines like his voice hadn’t once broken saying goodbye.
Ayan leaned back in his chair, exhaled through his nose.
He should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve prepared himself for the possibility. But the truth was, he didn’t even know why he had gone to that coffee shop yesterday. Maybe it was routine. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was just rain and timing and the quiet cruelty of the universe.
He tapped the pen in his hand, staring at the mock-up on his screen without really seeing it.
Akk’s still here.
And he looked… good.
A little leaner. A little sharper around the edges, maybe. But still unmistakably Akk. Still with that calm intensity that used to both comfort and frustrate Ayan to no end.
Had he moved on?
Probably. Why wouldn’t he?
Akk was the type of person people fell for without even trying. The kind of person who didn’t need loud entrances or flashy smiles — just that quiet presence that made people lean in without realizing it.
Ayan smiled to himself, just barely. It wasn’t bitter. Not really.
He could be with someone now. Someone smart. Driven. Thoughtful. Someone who didn’t forget to separate laundry colors or leave half-drunk glasses of water on every flat surface. Someone who matched Akk’s rhythm better.
Ayan rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling warmer under the collar.
It was weird — he wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t even sure what he was. Just… off-center. Like the gravity in the room had shifted a little since the moment their eyes met again.
He shook his head, trying to focus on the task in front of him. Campaign visuals. Color schemes. He was good at this. This was his zone.
But his mind kept slipping back — to the awkward exchange, to the slight hesitation in Akk’s voice, to that moment when their eyes met and everything between them came rushing back like a tide he’d worked months to suppress.
“Focus,” Ayan muttered to himself, dragging his mouse across the screen.
He chuckled softly, just under his breath. Not because anything was funny. Just because — of course this would happen on week one.
Of course, his past would be sitting in the same building, one floor up, looking like a version of himself Ayan had no right to miss.
–
It was almost noon when Akk finally found his rhythm again.
He had buried himself in work — decks to fix, reports to polish, revisions to review. The Reyes campaign was picking up speed, and he had zero time to get lost in the past.
He liked that. Structure. Strategy. Numbers. There was safety in focusing on things that didn’t look at you with familiar eyes and say your name like it still meant something.
He was discussing ad touchpoints with one of the marketing associates when a message pinged in his inbox.
[Creative Head: Upcoming Joint Meeting – Reyes Campaign Alignment, 2:00 PM]
Attendees: Akk, Ayan, and respective subteams.
Akk stared at it for a moment.
Seriously?
He blinked, reread the message — as if reading it again would make it say something different.
Of course it’s him, he thought, lips pressing into a thin line.
It was almost laughable how fate kept shoving them into the same spaces. First the coffee shop. Then the briefing. Now a joint meeting.
He swore he could hear the universe snickering behind his back.
It felt like being trapped in some kind of twisted cosmic joke — where every time he tried to move forward, something gently tapped him on the shoulder and whispered, not so fast.
He tried to keep his expression neutral as his colleague continued talking, nodding along like he hadn’t just been punched in the chest by a four-line calendar invite.
He couldn’t even be mad, really. It made sense — Ayan was on Creative now. These kinds of meetings would happen. They had to happen. It was just work.
It wasn’t personal.
But that didn’t stop the tension from crawling back into his shoulders, or the familiar tightness building in his chest.
He excused himself after the conversation wrapped up, heading to the break room under the guise of needing caffeine. He didn't. His hands were already jittery.
He stared at the coffee machine, arms crossed, trying to center himself.
It’s been eight months.
You’ve moved on. Or… you’ve tried to.
You’re not that person anymore.
But every time he saw Ayan — his voice, his posture, the way he still tilted his head when he was thinking — it chipped at something in him he thought had hardened already.
Akk pressed the button for hot americano and leaned against the counter.
Maybe fate wasn’t mocking him.
Maybe it was just… reminding him.
That some things don’t go away cleanly. That some chapters don’t close with neat punctuation. That sometimes, no matter how far you walk, your past is just one elevator ride away.
And maybe, it was reminding him that this story wasn’t done yet.
–
The conference room was already half full when Akk walked in, coffee in hand, face set in that expression he wore when he needed to seem untouchable.
People shuffled papers, adjusted laptops, filled the air with safe, professional chatter. Slides were already up on the screen. The hum of the AC filled the pauses.
He took a seat near the head of the table, opening his notebook, reviewing notes — anything to avoid scanning the room for a particular face.
But he didn’t have to look. He could feel it.
A presence. Subtle. Familiar. Like a song he’d once fallen asleep to.
He didn’t glance up when Ayan entered. Not right away.
But eventually, the pull was too strong.
Akk looked — just briefly — and there he was.
Ayan sat on the other side of the long table, beside their Creative lead. Calm and composed. Dressed in soft tones and quiet confidence. He was scribbling something in his notebook, head slightly down. But then, as if he’d sensed Akk’s gaze, he looked up.
Their eyes met for a second.
A beat too long.
Neither smiled.
The meeting began.
Their leads talked numbers, projections, and visual directions. Slides changed. Feedback was exchanged. Everyone nodded and murmured and asked questions.
It was professional and efficient.
But underneath the table, Akk’s leg bounced slightly. His pen tapped against his page. He could feel Ayan’s voice when he spoke — measured, articulate, always thoughtful. It didn’t matter if he was talking about typography or emotional tone — he still carried that something in his voice.
Something that once held Akk on his worst days.
They disagreed once — over tone. Ayan suggested a warmer palette; Akk pushed for a more sophisticated direction.
“It might be too clean,” Ayan said, flipping to a sketch on his iPad. “We need some human imperfection. Something that feels lived-in.”
Akk raised a brow. “We’re not selling nostalgia, we’re selling aspiration.”
For a second, the table quieted.
Then someone chuckled lightly to break the tension.
“Healthy debate,” their manager said. “Keep it coming.”
Ayan smiled politely, sitting back in his chair. “Of course.”
But Akk noticed the flicker in his eyes. The familiarity of it.
They used to argue about design on their couch at 1AM, half-asleep and surrounded by takeout containers. It used to end in laughter. In hands brushing. In Akk giving in, secretly loving the way Ayan fought for his vision.
Now it just ended in silence.
–
The room emptied slowly.
People gathered their things, said quick goodbyes, and moved on with their day. Akk lingered behind, waiting for a PDF to finish exporting. He didn’t even need it right then — he just wasn’t ready to walk out.
Then he heard the soft scrape of a chair.
He looked up.
Ayan was still there, standing by the door, notebook in hand.
They were alone now.
“Nice pitch,” Ayan said, tone casual. But his eyes searched Akk’s face for something more.
Akk shrugged, still seated. “You held your own.”
“Always did,” Ayan said softly, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
That pulled a breath out of Akk. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, before he could stop himself.
Ayan raised an eyebrow. “I work here now.”
“I know. That’s not what I meant.”
A beat of silence.
Then Ayan spoke, quieter this time. “I didn’t know you were still here.”
Akk nodded. “Guess fate thinks we still have unfinished business.”
Ayan looked down at his shoes. Then back up.
“Do we?”
The question landed heavy in the space between them. No judgment. No accusation. Just honest curiosity. Maybe even hope.
Akk swallowed, heart thudding quietly in his chest. He didn’t answer right away.
Because the truth was — he didn’t know.
He thought he had locked the door behind Ayan eight months ago. But now here they are again. In the same room. No keys. No doors. Just… possibility.
Maybe fate wasn’t mocking them after all. Maybe it was inviting them to look a little closer.
But Akk didn’t answer right away.
The room felt too still. Even the air between them was holding its breath.
Ayan waited, but not impatiently. Just… openly. The way he always did — giving Akk space, even when it hurt.
Finally, Akk said, “I don’t know if there’s anything to finish.”
Ayan’s lips twitched into something between a smile and a flinch. “Right. Maybe not.”
“But…” Akk paused, gaze flicking up to meet Ayan’s. “It’s weird. Seeing you here.”
“Yeah.” Ayan let out a breath of laughter. “You too.”
Another beat of silence.
It wasn't tense — just weighted. The kind of quiet that holds too many memories between the cracks.
Akk stood slowly, slipping his laptop into his bag. “You settling in okay?”
Ayan nodded. “Yeah. People are nice. Work’s good.”
“That’s good.” Akk hesitated. “You always had an eye for this stuff.”
Ayan’s expression softened. “And you always made things make sense.”
Akk didn’t know what to say to that. It was too kind. Too honest. Too close to how things used to be.
He slung the bag over his shoulder.
“Well,” he said, voice steadier than he felt. “See you around, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Ayan said quietly, watching him like he wanted to say more. “See you.”
They walked out in opposite directions.
Neither of them looked back.
It was Saturday afternoon. The city buzzed with weekend noise — light traffic, families in malls, the faint beat of music spilling from open cafés.
Akk hadn’t planned to stop by the bookstore. He just found himself there.
He told himself it was because he needed a new notebook. That he liked the calm. That he wasn’t avoiding his apartment and the silence it held.
He wandered through the aisles without much purpose, fingers brushing book spines, mind somewhere else entirely.
Then, in the fiction section, he turned a corner — and froze.
Ayan.
Sitting on a low bench in front of a display table, a paperback in hand, brows furrowed in concentration. He hadn’t seen Akk yet.
He looked… peaceful. Hoodie slightly oversized, fingers curled around a book like it was something precious. The light from the nearby window caught in his hair.
Akk stood still for a second too long.
Then Ayan looked up.
Their eyes met.
Ayan blinked. “Oh. Hey.”
Akk cleared his throat, awkward. “Hey.”
Ayan held up the book. “Didn’t think I’d run into you again.”
“I didn’t think I’d run into you.”
Ayan smiled a little. “Apparently we both shop for accidental fate on Saturdays.”
That made Akk laugh — quiet and short, but real.
“Looking for something specific?” Ayan asked.
“Just browsing. Needed a new notebook.”
“Still journaling?”
“Yeah. Sometimes.” Akk hesitated. “You still reading those overly dramatic novels you used to cry over?”
Ayan narrowed his eyes playfully. “They’re critically acclaimed literary fiction, thank you.”
Akk smiled, surprised at how easily this moment slipped into something… warm. Familiar.
For a moment, the city outside faded. It was just them — tucked between shelves, surrounded by stories neither of them wrote, but somehow found themselves living in again.
Ayan stood slowly, sliding the book back onto the table. “Do you want to grab a coffee?”
Akk opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Then nodded, carefully. “Yeah. Sure.”
It wasn’t a grand decision. No dramatic music. No fate making declarations.
Just two people — stunned by how the past could sneak up on you in the quietest ways.
–
They didn’t go far.
There was a small café tucked just a block away from the bookstore — the kind of place with mismatched chairs, handwritten menus, and soft music floating in the air.
They ordered without much fuss. Ayan got his usual — Spanish latte, hot this time. Akk stuck to an iced caffe latte, just like that rainy day.
They settled into a window-side table, the soft clink of mugs grounding the awkwardness that hung in the air between them.
For the first few minutes, they talked about work. Safe ground. Campaigns, office quirks, their different departments. It felt normal. Or at least, they tried to make it feel that way.
Akk stirred his drink slowly, eyes on the condensation running down the glass. “So,” he said finally, voice careful, “what made you decide to join the company?”
Ayan shrugged lightly. “I wanted a change. New environment. And…” He looked at Akk, expression unreadable. “Didn’t really expect it to circle back to you.”
Akk looked up. Their eyes met. A flicker passed between them — not quite a spark, but not cold either.
“I didn’t think I’d still be here this long,” Akk admitted. “Thought I’d move on by now.”
“To a new job?”
“Maybe,” he said.
“Maybe not just that.” Akk thought.
Ayan nodded slowly. “Eight months feels like forever and five minutes at the same time.”
Akk didn’t reply, but he didn’t look away either.
Then, casually, like it meant nothing — Ayan said, “I think it’s been good though. The space. Being alone. I mean… single.”
He sipped his latte like he hadn’t said anything heavy. Like the word didn’t hang in the air between them like an exposed wire.
Akk’s fingers tightened slightly around his glass.
He heard it. Loud and clear.
Single.
Not seeing anyone. Not tied up with someone else.
But he didn’t react. Not outwardly.
He just nodded slowly, eyes dropping back to his drink. “That’s good.”
That’s good? That’s all he could manage?
He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say.
“Same? I’ve thought about you every month since? I haven’t touched anyone since the last time you kissed me goodbye?”
No. That would be too much. Too fast. Too fragile.
So he stayed silent.
Ayan looked at him for a long moment — almost like he was waiting for something more. But when it didn’t come, he smiled faintly and leaned back into his chair.
Outside, the city moved on without them. Cars passed. Someone walked their dog. The clouds looked like they might rain again.
Inside, two people sat across from each other, each pretending this was just coffee.
–
They both sipped their drinks like they had all the time in the world. Like the years between them hadn’t blurred at the edges.
“I passed by that ramen place last week,” Ayan said suddenly, voice casual but his eyes elsewhere. “The one you used to drag me to after late shifts.”
Akk’s lips curled faintly. “You hated that place.”
“I hated the chairs. They were tiny. You always took the only good one and made me sit by the draft.”
Akk laughed softly. “That’s because you ordered five toppings and took forever. You needed to be humbled.”
Ayan chuckled too, but there was something behind it — something warm and aching. “Maybe I just liked watching you be smug about soup.”
The laugh slipped from Akk’s mouth, but it caught halfway. He glanced down, then back up.
Funny, how memory had no respect for boundaries.
“I don’t go there anymore,” he said, voice lower now. “It’s not the same alone.”
Ayan nodded slowly. “A lot of things aren’t.”
Another pause.
Not awkward. Just honest.
There was no anger between them. No blame hanging in the air. Just two people remembering what it was like to be each other’s person — and quietly mourning that they weren’t anymore.
“Do you think,” Ayan started, tracing the rim of his mug with one finger, “we could’ve made it work… if we’d met at a different time?”
Akk inhaled slowly.
He didn’t answer right away.
Then, eyes steady, he said, “Maybe. Or maybe we were always meant to be a lesson, not a lifetime.”
Ayan nodded, lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s poetic.”
“You were the one who liked fiction,” Akk said, trying to smile.
“I liked us,” Ayan said quietly.
That landed somewhere deep in Akk’s chest — not painful, but not easy either.
He stirred the ice in his drink again. “We wanted different things. That’s not anyone’s fault.”
“No,” Ayan said. “But wanting wasn’t the problem, was it?”
Akk met his gaze.
The air shifted — just slightly.
Because he knew what Ayan meant.
They did love each other. Fully. Deeply. Enough to try. Enough to hope. But the world outside of that love — work, dreams, pace, timing — had other plans.
And sometimes, love just isn’t enough when the map is leading you in opposite directions.
That didn’t make the love any less real.
Ayan glanced at the time. “I should go.”
Akk nodded, lips pressed together. “Yeah. Me too.”
They stood. Picked up their cups, and walked side by side to the door.
Neither said “let’s do this again.”
Neither said “goodbye” either.
Outside, the sun had begun to dip. The sky was soft and pink at the edges.
They paused just outside the café.
And for a second, it felt like the last scene of a movie — the kind where no one says the thing they’re thinking, but you feel it anyway.
“I’m glad we talked,” Ayan said finally, offering a small smile.
Akk nodded. “Me too.”
Then they turned.
And walked off in different directions.
Hearts fuller, but heavier.
Because now they knew the truth.
They still cared.
They still remembered.
And maybe, they still loved — quietly, painfully, in the corners of their lives.
But that didn’t mean they were meant to return.
Not yet.