ZOE
The problem with writing about love is that you have to believe in it.
I shifted in my chair, tapping my pen against the edge of my notebook. The tiny café we always met in was quiet, save for the occasional clink of a spoon against porcelain or the faint hiss of the espresso machine. It was nice. Too nice. The kind of place that makes you feel like you should be better than you were.
Dr. Rosen cleared his throat, pulling me out of my spiral. He shifted in his chair, adjusted his glasses, and then carefully set my paper on the table. His fingers lingered on it, like he wasn’t sure if he should let it go.
He didn’t look good.
“I hate to ask you this, Zoe,” he said, his voice soft, his words almost hesitant. “But have you met the love of your life?”
I blinked at him, caught comple
