After that, the conversation changed.
Not abruptly. Not dramatically.
It simply slowed—like a river reaching deeper ground, where movement still exists but becomes careful, deliberate. Every word now seemed to require permission, as if we were both aware that anything careless could undo us in ways neither of us could afford.
The café had begun to empty. A couple paid their bill and left. Chairs scraped softly against the floor. Cups clinked. The ordinary sounds of life continued, inconsiderate and unknowing, while something fragile unfolded between two people who had once been everything and nothing at the same time.
I noticed he still hadn't checked his phone. Not once.
No restless glances. No distractions. He remained entirely present, the way he always had—like time with me was something he refused to dilute.
"You still drink your tea like that," I said suddenly, pointing before I could stop myself. "Too much sugar."
He looked down at his cup, then smiled faintly. "Some habits don't change." I almost said neither does love.
The thought frightened me enough to swallow it whole. Silence settled again—longer this time. Not awkward. Heavy.
"You know," he said finally, voice slower now, "I used to imagine running into you like this." My chest tightened. "Really?"
"Yes." He exhaled quietly. "But it never went the way I imagined." "How did it go in your head?" I asked.
"In my head," he said, looking down at the table, "I was calmer. Older. Indifferent."
"And now?" I asked, already knowing the answer. He looked up at me then. Really looked.
And for the first time since we met again, his eyes betrayed him. "Now I'm just… honest."
The word landed between us like a confession neither of us could take back. Another memory surfaced—clearer this time, sharper.
College. Rain tapping against the hostel window. The dim yellow light of the corridor leaking under the door. Me sitting on my bed, restless, unsure. Him standing near the doorway, uncertain whether he was welcome to stay or expected to leave.
"I don't want to lose you," I had said.
"You won't," he replied instantly.
I remembered how safe that answer had made me feel. I never asked what it cost him to promise that.
"Did it hurt?" I asked now, quietly. He didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Yes," he said.
No hesitation.
No embellishment.
"But it wasn't the loving that hurt."
My throat tightened. "Then what did?"
"Being careful all the time," he said.
"Measuring my words. My presence. My absence. Loving you in ways that wouldn't disturb your life."
The ache that spread through my chest was sharp and immediate. "I thought you were strong," I whispered.
He smiled then—not bitter, not amused. Just tired. "I was," he said. "That was the problem."
I looked down at my hands. At the ring I wore. At the life I had built so deliberately. The life I had chosen with confidence and certainty.
"How long?" I asked. "How long did you feel like that?"
He leaned back slightly, eyes lifting to the ceiling, as if the years were written there.
"Long enough to stop waiting," he said. "Not long enough to stop caring."
The words crushed something inside me.
All those years, I had told myself a story—that he had moved on, that he had been fine, that love fades when it isn't fed.
I had been wrong.
Love hadn't faded.
It had learned how to be quiet.
Outside, the sky darkened, streetlights flickering on one by one.
Inside me, guilt bloomed fully—not loud, not dramatic—just heavy and undeniable. Silence, I realized then, had never been empty.
It had been full.
Full of restraint.
Full of discipline.Full of him.