Friday Rain
Scene 1: The Café
Rain came down in hard silver lines, the kind that blurred streetlights and turned the campus walkways into slick ribbons. Nicole tightened her grip on the navy umbrella and half-jogged toward The Hideout Café, her sneakers splashing through shallow puddles. Friday evenings belonged to her and Cleo. Two years of ritual—coffee, quiet corners, whispered plans about internships and the life they’d build after graduation.
She pushed through the glass door, welcomed by the familiar perfume of espresso and vanilla beans. The small bell over the entrance gave its soft, tinny chime. Inside, the air was warm and humming: students hunched over laptops, a couple arguing gently in the corner, the hiss of milk steaming behind the counter.
Nicole scanned the room, expecting the quick lift of Cleo’s hand, that crooked grin he always wore when he spotted her. Instead her eyes snagged on a figure at their usual table—a broad shoulder she knew as well as her own heartbeat. Cleo.
But he wasn’t alone.
Across from him sat Chloe, her hair still damp from the rain, dark strands clinging to her cheek. Nicole blinked, confusion sharpening to disbelief. Cleo’s fingers were threaded through Chloe’s, their hands resting in plain sight on the tabletop. Chloe leaned in, smiling in a way that felt too private, too practiced.
Nicole’s stomach dropped. The warmth of the café seemed to vanish, leaving a cold hollow where her chest should be.
For a heartbeat she simply stood there, rainwater dripping from her umbrella onto the tile floor. The noise of the café receded until all she heard was the rush of her own blood.
No. I’m imagining this.
But Cleo looked up, and the guilt in his eyes was immediate, unmistakable. Chloe’s smile faltered. Her hand twitched as if to pull away, but it was too late.
Nicole moved toward them, each step deliberate, the wet soles of her sneakers squeaking softly. She stopped at the edge of the table, the scent of roasted coffee suddenly acrid in her nose.
“Seriously?” The single word cut through the air like a snapped guitar string.
Cleo’s mouth opened, closed. “Nicole—I—”
“Don’t.” Her voice was steady, though her heart pounded so hard it hurt. “Don’t say a word.”
Chloe’s eyes were wide, the color of storm clouds. “Nicole, please, it’s not—”
Nicole lifted a hand, stopping her. “Not what it looks like? Because it looks like you’re holding hands with my boyfriend. My friend, Chloe.”
Silence settled like heavy fog. Around them, the café’s soundtrack—espresso machines, low conversation—faded into a distant echo.
Nicole turned without another glance and strode back to the door. The bell chimed again as she stepped into the rain. She welcomed the downpour, letting it hide the hot sting of tears as she disappeared into the gray evening.
