Chapter 7 Truth in the Glass
443 Words
The café smelled the same.
Over-roasted espresso. Burnt milk. Something sweet that lingered in the air but never tasted as good as it smelled. Joelle sat by the window, blazer still buttoned, hands folded around a mug that had gone cold fifteen minutes ago.
Melanie was late.
She always was.
When she finally walked in, Joelle saw her before she was ready.
She looked the same.
Same hair, same too-casual walk, same little laugh she used with strangers. She saw Joelle, waved, made her way over like nothing had ever broken.
Joelle didn’t stand.
“Hey, stranger,” Melanie said, sliding into the seat across from her.
Joelle nodded. “Hey.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
Melanie ordered tea. She tapped her nails against the table. She complimented Joelle’s earrings. She smiled like the last six months had been a dream they’d both woken up from.
Joelle didn’t smile back.
“You look good,” Melanie said.
Joelle tilted her head. “Thanks.”
“I mean it.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t.”
Melanie blinked. “Okay.”
More silence.
Then finally: “I’m not trying to make things weird. I just wanted to see you.”
Joelle nodded again. Sipped her coffee. Watched people pass outside the window.
“What we had was real,” Melanie said. “It wasn’t perfect, but—”
“It wasn’t enough,” Joelle interrupted, quietly.
Melanie’s mouth opened.
Closed.
Joelle continued, her voice steady now.
“I was always the one adjusting. Shrinking. Waiting to be heard. And when I finally stopped doing that, you left.”
Melanie’s jaw tensed. “That’s not fair.”
“It is,” Joelle said. “It just isn’t flattering.”
They sat with that.
The tea arrived. Neither of them touched it.
Joelle stood first.
“I don’t hate you,” she said. “I just can’t keep talking to the version of you that only shows up when you’re lonely.”
Melanie didn’t chase her.
Didn’t stand.
Didn’t say goodbye.
And Joelle walked out lighter.
Not healed.
Not triumphant.
Just… done.
Back in her apartment, the silence felt different.
Not empty.
Just open.
She poured herself a glass of wine this time she drank it slowly, deliberately. Not to numb. Just to pause.
Then she picked up her phone and typed.
I was afraid of wanting you for real.
And I want you for real.
I’m not good at this. But I’m not pretending anymore.
If you’re still willing come up. Or I’ll come down.
Either way I’m done hiding.
She didn’t rewrite it.
Didn’t overthink.
She pressed send.
And waited.
- Writer
