A fine mist of rain on the windowpane blurs her view onto the street and the rambling green hills in the distance. She's already on her second cappuccino, but still no sign of him. She's seated in the far corner of the picturesque little cottage turned café, farthest from the chatter of the other guests. But neither the aroma of coffee and freshly baked cakes, nor the softness of the cushioned chair gives her comfort. Her mobile lies next to the porcelain cup, black and silent since her arrival. Looking at it feels like staring into the void.
She averts her gaze back to the window, fiddling with the bracelet on her delicate wrist, rolling the intricate golden band between her manicured fingers. It was one of his first gifts from a lifetime ago. It's hard to explain – even to herself – why she still wears it.
The young waiter approaches her table, but she waves him away. What she needs is closure, not coffee. As he turns, light pierces through the clouds, illuminating his features in a way that makes her heart falter—the resemblance uncanny. Her mind conjures another face, stand-offish and withdrawn. A face so earnest that every smile she had incited had filled her with an odd sense of pride.
The door opens, and she's immediately snapped out of her reverie as she stares at the man who enters the café. She notices his height first, the way his solid frame roots him to the ground. He rakes a hand through the tousled curls sprinkled with grey, his ring finger free of a band. A jolt of anxiety flashes through her. After all, she wanted this meeting. To ask one last time if he was sure. To tell him that there was no turning back from this decision if he continued on his path. She closes her eyes, calming her breath, recalling the words she'd carefully prepared.
But as their eyes meet while he searches the room, she holds the gaze of a stranger. It brushes her briefly before drifting by, indifferent, until he finds the people he was actually looking for. Realisation hits her then, crushing in its definiteness. Her chest aches thinking about it—how much she hated him in the end for his lack of emotion. How much she loathes to still see him in strangers, stubbornly clinging to an idealised version of him. And how much she misses this rare, precious smile, the feeling of accomplishment attached to it.
Her head sinks into her hands, empty yet heavy, completely disconnected from how things were meant to be. Closure. The word a hollow thought in a hollow life.
