A QUESTION HE DIDN'T ASK
788 Words
For the next few weeks, Jayden and Leila became something.
Not quite friends. Not quite strangers.
Somewhere in the middle. Like pages stuck together in a book that hadn’t been fully opened yet.
They met most Wednesdays at the Bean Theory Café—sometimes talking, sometimes sitting in complete silence, scribbling in their sketchpads, sharing glances when the rain started tapping on the windows again. There was never a plan, never a question of “will you come?” They just showed up, like the universe had quietly booked them the same table.
But Jayden noticed something.
Leila never stayed long.
She always left just before it got too comfortable. Just before it got too familiar.
He wanted to ask why. Wanted to ask where she went after, why she always checked her phone but never answered it, why her smiles were always a little too small to trust. But he didn’t. Something told him not to push.
One Wednesday, she arrived soaked again, this time without the chaotic entrance. Just quietly slipping into the seat across from him, shivering slightly, raindrops clinging to her lashes.
“You’re always in the rain,” Jayden said softly.
Leila pulled her sleeves over her hands. “Maybe I like not rushing.”
He offered her his spare hoodie—the one he always kept in his bag but rarely wore. She hesitated, then took it, slipping it over her damp clothes. The sleeves swallowed her hands completely.
“Thanks.”
Jayden traced lazy circles on his cup. “Rough day?”
Leila gave a small laugh. “When are they not?”
He wanted to ask what that meant. But again—he didn’t.
Instead, he offered her part of his sketchpad. “Draw something?”
She glanced at him. “Like what?”
“Anything. Whatever’s in your head.”
She bit her lip, then carefully took the pencil. Her fingers trembled, but she steadied them.
Jayden watched as she drew slowly—a streetlight, two figures standing beneath it, one facing the other, rain pouring between them like a curtain.
When she was done, she pushed the sketchpad back to him.
Jayden studied it. “Is that us?”
“Maybe,” she said softly.
He looked at the way she’d drawn distance between the figures, space the rain seemed to protect. He didn’t ask why she hadn’t drawn them closer.
Instead, he said, “I like it.”
Leila shrugged, pretending it didn’t matter. “It’s just lines.”
Jayden tilted his head. “You always draw like you’re holding your breath.”
Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
The café was quieter than usual. The barista’s playlist was all soft acoustic guitar now, the rain outside nothing more than a faint whisper.
“You ever gonna tell me what you’re running from?” he asked, finally crossing the line he’d tiptoed around for weeks.
Leila’s jaw tensed.
She looked out the window.
The silence stretched too long.
Just when he thought she wouldn’t answer, she whispered, “Myself.”
Jayden’s chest tightened. “What does that mean?”
She shook her head, her braids brushing her shoulders. “It means I mess things up. People. Places. I don’t stay long because I don’t know how to.”
Jayden’s voice dropped. “You’ve stayed here.”
“Not really.” She met his gaze, her eyes glossy but steady. “I’m good at temporary. It’s the staying that scares me.”
He swallowed. “Why?”
She shrugged, but her fingers gripped the edge of the table tightly. “Because people leave. Or I leave first. Either way, it hurts.”
Jayden didn’t look away. “What if I don’t leave?”
Her breath caught, like the weight of that question was too much.
“That’s the problem, Jayden,” she said, her voice cracking just slightly. “You might not leave. And then I’ll have to figure out how to be someone who doesn’t either.”
The walls she had built so carefully were showing their cracks now.
Jayden reached across the table, gently brushing his thumb against her knuckles. “I’m not asking you to figure it out today.”
Leila’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard.
He smiled softly. “We can both be bad at this together.”
Her eyes flickered, some of the tension loosening in her shoulders. She flipped her hand over, lacing her fingers loosely with his, like testing if it was real.
They stayed like that, hand in hand, while the rain eased into a soft drizzle.
No more words.
No more questions.
Just the quiet, fragile thing they were building.
One Wednesday at a time.
- Writer
