Chapter 8 – Coffee and Confessions
949 Words
The café smelled of roasted beans and rain. The storm outside had slowed to a drizzle, and the soft hum of conversation filled the narrow space. Aarav was already seated by the window, his camera bag on the floor beside him. When Mira walked in, droplets still clinging to her hair, he couldn’t help but smile.
“Hey,” she greeted, breathless. “Sorry, I’m late. Traffic was a mess.”
“You made it,” he said simply, sliding a steaming cup toward her. “Flat white, no sugar. I remembered.”
Mira blinked in surprise. “You remembered that?”
Aarav shrugged, a small grin tugging at his lips. “I pay attention.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, the kind that wasn’t awkward but careful. Mira opened her sketchbook—her found sketchbook—and flipped through pages, tracing the faint water stains that had dried into delicate patterns.
“I still can’t believe you found this,” she said softly. “I thought I’d lost everything in here.”
He looked out the window. “I couldn’t throw it away,” he admitted. “Something about it felt… alive.”
Mira studied him for a second. “Alive?”
“Yeah,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Like whoever drew these wasn’t just drawing shapes. They were trying to breathe through them.”
Mira laughed lightly, but her gaze dropped to her cup. “That’s… maybe true.”
She hesitated before adding, “I started sketching again after my mother passed. It was the only thing that quieted my mind. I didn’t draw to show anyone—I drew to not fall apart.”
Aarav didn’t speak. His fingers traced the rim of his coffee mug, the foam long gone cold.
“I get that,” he finally said. “For me, it’s photography. After my brother’s accident, I couldn’t talk to anyone. But the lens made sense—it let me keep a distance, even when I wanted to be close.”
Their eyes met again—two artists bound by grief and the strange comfort of creation.
The rain picked up outside, tapping gently against the glass.
“So you hide behind the camera,” she said, almost teasing.
“And you hide behind the canvas,” he replied.
They both smiled, small and understanding.
Mira leaned back, watching the ripples of steam rise from her cup. “Do you ever wonder if we create because we’re broken? Or because we’re trying to prove we’re not?”
He tilted his head. “Maybe both. Maybe it’s how we survive the noise.”
A moment passed before he asked, “Why do you draw people like they’re disappearing?”
She froze. “What do you mean?”
“In your sketches,” he said gently. “The outlines are soft, almost fading. It feels like they’re slipping away.”
Her throat tightened. “Because they do. People leave. Sometimes without meaning to.”
Something in her voice cracked—barely, but enough. Aarav didn’t push further. He just nodded.
He pulled out his camera, turning the screen toward her. “Can I show you something?”
On it was a photo—an empty park bench under a tree, drenched in rain. But on the bench sat a small, abandoned scarf.
“It was from last winter,” he said. “I waited two hours. Nobody came back for it.”
Mira studied the photo. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“It’s lonely,” he corrected softly.
They sat in silence again, but this time, it was a shared silence. The kind that fills spaces words can’t reach.
When Mira finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “You know, people always tell me I should move on. From the past, from grief, from expectations. But I don’t think you move on—you just learn to carry it differently.”
Aarav looked at her then—not the polite smiles, not the careful tone—but the person beneath all of it. “Maybe that’s why your sketches feel alive,” he said. “Because they’re carrying something.”
Mira met his gaze, her lips curving into a small, unsteady smile. “And maybe that’s why your photos feel like they’re waiting for someone.”
The rain outside slowed to a soft drizzle again.
Mira closed her sketchbook, resting her hand on it as though grounding herself. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
“For what?”
“For finding this. For finding me, in a way.”
Aarav smiled. “Maybe we were both a little lost.”
Their eyes lingered for a second too long. Something unspoken passed between them—an understanding, a connection, maybe even a beginning.
The barista called out, breaking the moment. “One caramel latte to go!”
Mira exhaled softly, collecting her things. “I should get going. Deadlines.”
Aarav nodded, though part of him wanted to ask her to stay. “Same time next week?”
She paused at the door, looking back with that quiet, knowing smile. “Only if you promise not to photograph my bad side.”
He chuckled. “You don’t have one.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile. As she stepped out, the bell above the door chimed—a soft sound swallowed by the rain.
Aarav watched her go, the city blurring behind the glass. Then he reached for his camera, snapping one photo of the empty chair across from him.
He looked at the image on the screen and whispered, “Found.”
- Writer
