The Break and the Begin
1889 Words
Ava woke up before the alarm.
The sky was still dark. A soft gray hung outside her window. She sat up slowly, blanket tangled around her legs, heart beating faster than it should.
She hadn’t had the dream in months.
But last night, it came back.
The phone screen. The message. The sinking feeling in her gut. The way her chest tightened as she scrolled. The moment she realized he didn’t even bother deleting it.
I miss you already. Last night was perfect.
Her fingers curled into the sheet.
That was the first time she broke. The moment her world split open and swallowed her whole.
She hadn’t told Cole the full story. Not yet. Not about how it ended. Not about the guilt she carried for staying too long, for seeing it coming and hoping it wasn’t real.
She should have left earlier.
But she didn’t.
That morning, she walked to the café in silence, earbuds in, music low, eyes on the sidewalk. Her chest felt heavy again. Like the weight she thought was gone had crept back overnight.
Cole was already there, setting up. He looked up as she walked in.
“You’re early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
He studied her face for a second. “Bad dream?”
She nodded once.
He didn’t ask more. Just handed her a fresh mug and turned the music on low.
The café filled slowly. Locals. A few tourists. Familiar faces. It was easier to focus on tasks. On movement. On anything but the sinking inside her chest.
Then he walked in.
Jamie.
Hair shorter. Face leaner. Same smirk.
Ava froze.
The air in the room shifted. Her body went still. Her hands clenched behind the counter.
He saw her. Of course he did.
He smiled like nothing had happened.
Like she hadn’t vanished without a word.
“Hey,” he said casually. “You’re back.”
Ava didn’t speak.
Jamie looked around, as if checking who else was watching. Then stepped closer.
“Can we talk?”
“No.”
He blinked. “You don’t even want to hear what I have to say?”
“I already did.”
Cole appeared without a sound, standing between them.
“You need something?” he asked.
Jamie looked annoyed now. “I’m just talking to her.”
“She said no.”
Jamie looked at Ava. “Really?”
She nodded. “Really.”
Jamie laughed under his breath and walked out without ordering.
The moment the door shut, her hands began to shake.
She walked into the back and sat on a crate. Her lungs felt tight. Her chest burned. She couldn’t stop replaying the look on his face.
Like she owed him something.
Cole followed a minute later. He didn’t say anything. Just leaned against the wall near the shelves and waited.
After a while, Ava finally spoke.
“I didn’t think he’d come back.”
“He always liked attention.”
“I should’ve said more. Something stronger.”
“You said enough.”
She looked up at him.
“I hate that my body still reacts. That I still get this… rush. Like I’m trapped again.”
“You’re not.”
“But it feels like I am.”
Cole sat beside her on the crate.
“You know what I used to do when I felt like that?”
“What?”
“Run.”
She gave a weak smile. “You don’t seem like the running type.”
“I ran by staying quiet. By pretending nothing got to me. It caught up eventually.”
She looked at him.
“What did you do when it caught up?”
“Broke. Then rebuilt.”
He said it without flinching.
Ava nodded slowly.
“I feel like I’m still in the breaking part.”
“Then don’t rush the rebuild. Just don’t stop showing up.”
She breathed in. Let it settle. Let the words find a place inside her.
The rest of the day moved in slow motion.
Ava returned to the front counter, but something had shifted. She smiled when needed. Poured drinks. Cleaned tables. But her body felt like a shell. Her mind was stuck in rewind.
Every time the bell above the door rang, her stomach tightened.
Jamie didn’t come back.
Still, she stayed alert. Watched every face. Anticipated a confrontation that never came.
After closing, Cole wiped down the tables while Ava took inventory. The silence wasn’t heavy. It was patient.
Cole finally broke it.
“Want to talk about it?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Okay.”
She appreciated that. No pressure. No fishing.
She grabbed her things and walked home alone. Carol was waiting on the porch with a blanket around her shoulders.
“I heard,” she said.
Ava dropped her bag. “You already know everything.”
“I know what happened. I don’t know how it felt. You don’t talk about that part.”
Ava hesitated.
“I’m tired of it controlling me,” she said.
Carol nodded. “Then name it. That’s how you take power back.”
Ava sat beside her. They watched the sky darken.
“Do you think I was weak?”
“No,” Carol said firmly. “I think you were hopeful. And people like him feed on hope.”
That hit harder than expected.
“I thought if I stayed, I could fix it. Or at least protect what was good.”
“But it was broken,” Carol said. “And you didn’t break it.”
Ava nodded. Her throat tightened.
“I saw the messages. Plural. He didn’t just cheat. He lied for weeks. And I still kissed him goodbye the next day.”
Carol reached over and squeezed her hand.
“That doesn’t make you weak. That makes you human.”
Ava stayed quiet. Let the wind fill the spaces between their words.
Later that night, she texted Cole.
Thanks for today. I owe you.
He replied a minute later.
You don’t owe me anything. I’m glad you’re here.
She didn’t know what to say to that. So she stared at the screen for a while, then turned off the light.
The next morning, she felt clearer.
Tired, but clear.
She walked into work early again. Cole was there, wiping down the espresso machine.
“You open this place in your sleep?” she joked.
He smirked. “It’s easier than dreaming.”
She poured herself a mug of coffee. He handed her a muffin.
“On the house,” he said.
She took a bite and sat across from him at the bar.
“I thought about what you said yesterday,” she began.
“Which part?”
“The part about rebuilding.”
He nodded slowly.
“I think I need to tear some stuff down first,” she said.
Cole didn’t speak. Just waited.
“I kept his pictures for too long. His old texts. I’d reread them like they’d change if I looked hard enough.”
“I get it.”
“I hated him. But I missed him. And that messed with my head.”
She paused.
“I guess I want to stop pretending I’m okay when I’m not. Even if I have to do it one piece at a time.”
Cole tapped the bar with his knuckles.
“Then let’s start here.”
He pulled a marker from his apron and handed it to her.
“What’s this for?”
“The wall.”
Ava turned and saw the chalkboard-painted wall behind the counter. It was filled with scribbles from staff. Quotes. Notes. Inside jokes.
“Write something. Doesn’t have to be deep. Just yours.”
Ava thought for a second, then wrote:
Still showing up.
Cole read it, nodded once, then added under it:
Glad you did.
They didn’t say anything after that.
They didn’t need to.
The Saturday crowd was heavier than usual.
Tourists. Regulars. A wedding party stopping in before the rehearsal dinner. Ava stayed busy, but her thoughts kept drifting to Cole. Not in a dramatic way. Just… aware of him. Of the quiet rhythm they’d developed.
When their hands brushed while passing coffee cups, she didn’t pull away.
When he leaned closer to explain the new till system, her heart beat a little faster.
It was subtle, but it was there.
At one point, an older couple came in and ordered two cappuccinos. They sat near the window, holding hands, whispering and laughing.
Ava watched them for a moment too long.
Cole noticed.
“Cute, huh?”
She nodded. “I wonder how long they’ve been together.”
He thought about that.
“Long enough to stop trying to be perfect for each other. And just be.”
Ava looked at him.
“That’s what you think love is?”
“Not always,” he said. “But I think the real kind… makes room for all the mess.”
She wasn’t sure if he was talking about her. Or himself.
But it stayed with her.
After the rush died down, Cole handed her a folded paper towel with something scribbled on it.
She raised a brow.
“You wrote me a napkin poem?”
“Worse,” he said. “Shift schedule.”
She laughed and unfolded it. He’d drawn little stars next to her name on three of the days.
“What are the stars for?”
He shrugged. “Thought you could use a reminder that those days will be better.”
Her throat tightened.
“I’m not used to people… doing things like that.”
Cole leaned against the counter.
“You’re used to being strong alone. But you don’t have to be.”
She folded the napkin again and put it in her pocket.
“Thanks.”
He changed the subject. “You still painting?”
Ava blinked. “How do you know I paint?”
“You mentioned it once. Your second week. Said your hands missed color.”
She hadn’t remembered saying that. But he had.
“I haven’t in a while,” she admitted. “Too much noise in my head.”
He nodded. “Maybe it’s time to let some of it out.”
That night, Ava dug through an old box in her closet and found her brushes.
Some were stiff from dried paint. Others still had flecks of color on them.
She set up a small canvas on her kitchen table and just started.
No plan. No sketch. Just movement.
The colors were messy. Raw. Deep reds and muted blues. A shadowed figure. Eyes open but tired. Hands stretched toward something off-frame.
She didn’t know what it was.
But it was hers.
When she finished, she sat back and looked at it. For the first time in months, she didn’t feel numb.
She texted Cole.
You were right. The color helped.
A minute passed.
Then:
Send me a pic.
She hesitated.
Then took a photo and sent it.
A few seconds later:
It’s honest. That’s rare. I like it.
She stared at the screen.
Then typed:
I’m scared. Of trusting this. Of trusting you.
This time, it took longer for him to reply.
You don’t have to trust me all at once. Just don’t disappear.
- Writer
