Lia
He drives away before I can even move. One second he’s there, staring at me like I’m the only thing he sees—and the next, his taillights blur down the street. I stand here, frozen, jacket clenched in my hand, throat tightening.
“I know,” he said. “But I am.”
The words replay on a loop.
By the time I go back inside, the Cozy Cup is nearly empty. A barista mops in slow circles near the counter, the floor still sticky from spilled caramel drizzle. I slide into the booth like I’m sleepwalking, my thighs sticking to the seat, body too warm in places I don’t want to think about.
He left.
Of course, he did.
I pull my drink closer, but it’s all melted now—just sweet, lukewarm flavored water. I don’t taste it or feel the cup in my hands. Just the aftershocks of being touched like I was
