Work Text:
You watch him laugh at something on his phone, that same crooked smile that made you fall three years ago. The coffee shop hums around you both, but all you hear is the way he says your name when he looks up, casual as breathing. You've memorized that voice saying a thousand other things -- useless things, mundane things -- but never the words you need.
Your chest tightens when he mentions her again. How her hair catches the light. How she texts him back immediately. You nod and make the right sounds, play the part of the good friend who wants him happy. The bitter irony tastes worse than the burnt coffee cooling between your hands.
"You're quiet today," he says, and you realize you've been staring at the foam dissolving in your cup.
I love you sits behind your teeth like a held breath. Instead you say, "Just tired," because that's easier than watching him retreat into politeness. You've seen it happen before: with Liam from college, with that guy from the gym. The careful distance that follows awkward confessions.
He checks his watch. She's picking him up in ten minutes. You want to grab his wrist, hold him here in this moment where you can still pretend the space between you might close someday. But you know how this ends. You've always known.
The bell above the door chimes as she walks in, and his whole face changes. Lights up in ways it never does for you. You stand to leave, make excuses about errands, and he barely notices. She slides into your still-warm seat.
Outside, you button your jacket against October wind and think about patterns. How you always choose the ones who can't choose you back. How some stories write themselves in circles.
And so it goes.