It's always you

Chapter Four – "The Unspoken Things"

From Ava’s Point of View

There’s a moment—right before you open a door—when you ask yourself if you’re about to make a mistake.

I stood outside the café, hand hovering just above the handle, pretending I was adjusting my sleeve. I wasn’t. I was stalling.

It had been three days since I’d seen her. Three days since Ava said my name like it meant something. Since she tilted her head with that curious, open look, like she was trying to see past my skin and into the soft places I usually hide.

And now I was back.

Not because I needed coffee. Not really. But because I wanted to see her again. Or maybe just prove to myself that it hadn’t all been in my head.

I stepped inside.

The warm hum of conversation greeted me first. Clinking cups, low music, the familiar bitter scent of roasted beans. I scanned the room, my heart stuttering in my chest.

She was there.

Same corner table. Her head tilted slightly, hair falling over her face as she scrolled through something on her phone. She hadn’t seen me yet.

God, she was beautiful.

I thought about turning around. Pretending I never came. But then she looked up.

And smiled.

That was all it took.

I crossed the room slowly, nerves dancing under my skin.

"You came back," she said, her voice half-surprised, half-relieved.

"So did you," I replied, trying not to sound breathless.

"Sit?"

I nodded and pulled out the chair across from her, unwrapping my scarf as I did. For a second, neither of us spoke. We just watched each other. That strange, quiet recognition was still hanging in the air between us.

"How’s your notebook?" she asked.

I raised an eyebrow.

"The one you keep all your secret ideas in," she teased.

I let out a laugh—soft, caught off guard.

"It’s still a mess. But maybe a slightly more hopeful one."

She smiled, and for a moment I forgot how to sit still. I fiddled with my ring. Tapped my thumb against the side of my mug.

She noticed, I think. Ava noticed things. Not in a loud, dramatic way—but in the way people do when they’re actually paying attention.

"Do you always get this nervous around strangers?" she asked gently.

I looked up at her, eyes wide. "Is it that obvious?"

She tilted her head. "Not obvious. Just... honest."

It made me pause. I wasn’t used to people calling me honest. Guarded, maybe. Mysterious, if they were being generous. But not this.

And yet, here I was, feeling like she saw right through me.

I leaned back in my chair. "I don’t usually do this."

"Meet girls in coffee shops?"

"Get seen."

The words slipped out before I could stop them. But I didn’t take them back.

Ava didn’t laugh. She didn’t look uncomfortable. She just nodded like she understood, like maybe she knew exactly what that felt like.

"Then I’m glad I saw you," she said.

My heart tripped over itself.

We talked longer this time. About nothing and everything. Favorite movies. Worst first dates. The time she dyed her hair green in high school because a band she liked said it was cool.

I told her about the first website I ever built—ugly, slow, and bright orange. She laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink.

It was easy. So easily it scared me a little.

Because what was I doing?

Falling for a girl I barely knew?

Wanting to learn her laughs, her sighs, the exact rhythm of her silences?

When she checked her watch, my stomach sank. "I have to go. Meeting my sister in an hour."

"Right," I said quickly, masking the disappointment. "Of course."

She stood, pulling on her coat. Then paused.

"Do you want to meet here again?" she asked. "Same time next week?"

My breath caught. I nodded, my heart thudding so hard I was sure she could hear it.

"Yeah," I said. "I’d like that."

She smiled. Soft and secure. And then she was gone.

I stayed in that seat for another hour.

Just sitting in the afterglow of her.

Just letting myself believe in something.

Even if it was just the beginning.

I walked home instead of taking the train. Needed the air. The quiet. The time to sort through the ache in my chest that didn’t hurt, exactly—just stretched.

By the time I reached my apartment, I already knew what I’d do.

I pulled out my old notebook. The one she asked about. The one I hadn’t touched in months.

I opened it and began to sketch. Nothing fancy. Just lines and light and little notes in the margins.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t hate what I saw.

I thought about her laugh. Her eyes. The way she listened was like she was holding space for every word I said.

Maybe next time, I'll ask more about her. What she was afraid of. What she dreamed about when no one was watching.

Maybe next time, I'll tell her a secret.

Something small. Something true.

But until then, I let the memory of her fill the quiet room around me.

Not all beginnings come crashing in.

Some arrive like a whisper.

And I think I’m starting to hear it.

Short Scene: Ava’s Flashback (Childhood)

The power had gone out. Again.

Ava sat under her blanket, a small flashlight tucked between her shoulder and cheek. Her parents’ voices argued faintly down the hall—sharp edges muffled by closed doors and her own breath.

But in her hands was a sketchpad.

She drew shapes she didn’t fully understand—curved lines, shadows, windows without buildings. Her fingers smudged the pencil as she worked, but she didn’t stop.

Drawing was the only thing that made sense back then. When the house was loud. When her own thoughts felt too big for her body.

She was twelve. And already she knew: if she didn’t get these pictures out, they would drown her.

That night, she drew a girl looking out a window. A world she hadn’t seen yet reflected in her eyes.

Maybe it had been Ava all along.

She didn’t know.

But something about that memory came back now—strong and quiet—and she let it settle beside her.

It felt like a promise she hadn’t realized she was keeping.