SEVEN : WHAT WE REMEMBER
1201 Words
The café was loud.
Louder than I remembered.
Not just with voices, but with life.
The hiss of the espresso machine.
The clatter of ceramic cups meeting saucers.
Someone laughing too hard in the corner.
A baby crying for exactly three seconds before being distracted by a cookie.
Music drifted through hidden speakers, something old and familiar that made people unconsciously tap their feet.
It wasn’t noisy in an irritating way.
It was alive.
The kind of alive I hadn’t realized I’d been missing.
I arrived five minutes early.
Serena arrived ten minutes late.
Some things never change.
I smiled to myself as I stirred my cappuccino, watching the foam collapse into tiny swirls. Three years had passed, yet I still knew she’d burst through the door apologizing dramatically before insisting none of it was actually her fault.
Right on cue, the bell above the entrance chimed.
I looked up.
There she was.
Head held high.
Wild curls bouncing around her shoulders.
Oversized sunglasses sliding halfway down her nose.
A leather jacket thrown over one shoulder like she’d forgotten coats were supposed to be worn properly.
She stopped the second she spotted me.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
Then she crossed the café in long, determined strides, dropped her purse onto the nearest chair without even looking where it landed, and wrapped both arms around me.
Hard.
The kind of hug that squeezed the air from your lungs and somehow gave it back at the same time.
“You still smell like Chanel and chaos,” she whispered into my hair.
I laughed before I could stop myself.
A real laugh.
Not the polite one I gave clients.
Not the careful one I gave Tavish.
The kind that came from somewhere I’d forgotten existed.
“You still hug like we’re eighteen.”
“We are eighteen,” she said, finally letting go. “Just with taxes, lower back pain, and suspiciously expensive groceries.”
I laughed again.
God.
I’d missed this.
She leaned back and looked at me properly.
Not the way strangers do.
Not the way coworkers politely scan your face.
She really looked.
Her smile softened.
“You look beautiful.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You don’t have to lie.”
“I’m not.”
She reached across the table and gently brushed a strand of hair behind my ear.
“You look tired.”
There it was.
The truth.
Not cruel.
Just honest.
“So do you,” I shot back.
She gasped dramatically.
“Rude. I moisturize.”
“You also stayed up until two watching conspiracy documentaries.”
“They’re educational.”
“They’re about aliens.”
She shrugged.
“Educational aliens.”
For the next hour, we let the heaviness stay outside.
We ordered far too much.
Two cappuccinos.
One iced latte.
A warm almond croissant.
A slice of lemon cake we absolutely didn’t need.
Serena claimed calories didn’t count if they were shared.
I didn’t argue.
We talked about music.
About the singer we’d once skipped class to see live.
About books we’d sworn we’d write one day.
About the professor who accidentally set his own lecture notes on fire.
About the tattoo Serena still insisted was “symbolic,” even though she’d admitted years ago she’d only gotten it because the artist was attractive.
She laughed so loudly people turned to look.
She didn’t care.
She never had.
Listening to her felt strangely familiar.
Like opening windows in a house that had been shut for years.
Fresh air rushed into places I hadn’t realized were suffocating.
For a little while…
I forgot about Tavish.
I forgot about lipstick stains.
Forgot about hotel receipts.
Forgot about sleeping alone beside someone who was supposed to love me.
I was just…
Me.
Then, slowly, almost gently, the conversation shifted.
It always does.
Serena traced circles through the whipped cream melting into her coffee.
“So…”
I looked up.
“How bad is it?”
I didn’t ask what she meant.
We both knew.
My fingers tightened around the warm mug.
“Worse than I admit.”
She waited.
She’d always been good at that.
Never rushing people into honesty.
Just making space for it.
So I filled the silence.
I told her about the perfume.
The lipstick.
The late nights.
The excuses that sounded rehearsed.
The hotel receipt folded carefully inside my wallet.
The way I’d started apologizing for things that weren’t my fault.
The way I’d stopped dancing.
Stopped laughing.
Stopped wearing red lipstick because somewhere along the way I’d convinced myself I looked ridiculous in it.
“It’s not violent,” I said quietly. “He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t hit me. It’s just…”
I searched for the words.
“I don’t know how to explain what disappearing feels like.”
Serena reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
“You don’t need bruises for something to break you.”
I swallowed hard.
“He used to be different.”
She nodded.
“I believe you.”
“I don’t understand where he went.”
She looked at me with so much tenderness it almost hurt.
“Maybe you’re asking the wrong question.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
She smiled sadly.
“Instead of asking where he went…”
She squeezed my hand again.
“…ask where you went.”
The words settled somewhere deep inside me.
“You used to dance whenever music came on,” she continued.
“You used to wear bright lipstick because you liked how fearless it made you feel.”
“You used to order dessert first.”
“You used to laugh so hard people stared.”
Her eyes glistened.
“You used to be alive, Mira.”
I looked away before she could see mine filling with tears.
When we finally left the café, the afternoon sun spilled across the pavement, warm against my skin.
She walked me to my car anyway.
Neither of us seemed in a hurry to leave.
Before I climbed inside, she touched my arm.
“Come back to yourself.”
Her voice was quiet.
“I miss her.”
A small smile tugged at her lips.
“You should too.”
Then, because she was Serena, she ruined the seriousness completely.
“Oh… and I hope his d**k falls off.”
I laughed so hard I had to lean against the car door.
“There she is,” Serena said softly.
“What?”
“That laugh.”
When I got home, the penthouse was empty.
No music.
No television.
No shoes by the door.
No note.
No text.
Just silence.
But this time…
The silence didn’t feel like punishment.
It felt like peace.
I ran myself a bath.
Lit my favorite vanilla sandalwood candle.
Watched the flame flicker gently against the bathroom walls.
Then I stood in front of the mirror.
My reflection stared back.
Tired.
Healing.
Changing.
I placed one hand against the cool glass.
Then whispered my name.
Softly.
Steadily.
“Xamira Vale.”
I said it again.
And again.
Until it stopped sounding like someone I’d lost.
And started sounding like someone I was finally finding again.
- Writer
