Coffee and Confession
727 Words
“Hi,” he was smiling with a touch of nerves.
“Hi,” he replied, pulling out the chair opposite me.
I’d almost talked myself out of inviting him. Our history consisted of nods in the lobby, awkward elevator rides, and the occasional "good night" when I came home late. But there was something about Francis that lingered in my thoughts—something behind his eyes that never quite settled.
I wanted to know what he wasn’t saying.
“I’m glad you came,” I told him.
He nodded. “I’d like to get to know you too.”
For a while, we talked—light things. Coffee preferences. How neither of us truly understood the café’s odd obsession with chaotic jazz. I tried not to overanalyze the way he held his cup, how still he sat, or the faint edge of tension riding his shoulders.
But I noticed.
“Francis,” I began, keeping my voice gentle, “we’ve seen each other so many times now, but… I realize I don’t really know you.”
He met my gaze, calm but unreadable. “There’s not much to tell.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.” I leaned in, elbows resting on the table. “Everyone has a story.”
He hesitated. His hands pressed flat to the table like he was grounding himself. Then, finally, a slow breath escaped him.
“I dream about peace.”
I blinked at the honesty of it—not just the words, but the weight they carried.
He went on, voice low. “After everything… I’ve come to value stillness more than anything. But it’s harder to find than people think.”
I softened. “And what do you fear?”
He turned to the window, where the rain had just begun to streak the glass like quiet tears.
“Losing people. Again.”
*Again.*
That word echoed through me, hollow and heavy. I reached across the table and placed my hand over his.
“You’re not alone in that.”
Something shifted in him. His shoulders dipped, barely—but enough.
“I don’t usually talk about this,” he said. “I’ve spent so long keeping it locked away.”
“You don’t have to speak until you’re ready,” I said quietly. “But I’ll listen when you are.”
He nodded, slowly. “Thank you.”
We sat there, sharing quiet and cappuccinos, the world shrinking down to just this moment between us. As our conversation drifted to lighter things—childhood memories, favorite books, places we’d never been but dreamed of seeing—something between us began to take root. Gentle. Real.
When we finally stood to leave, Francis extended his arm to me, his smile faint and lopsided.
“Shall we?”
I hesitated only a second before linking my arm with his. “Yes. Let’s.”
Outside, the air had turned crisp. The city glowed around us, lights shimmering like stars spilled across wet pavement. For the first time in a long while, I felt calm. And something else.
A beginning.
We’d only made it half a block when Francis stopped abruptly.
“Wait.”
I turned to him—his face had gone pale. He pulled out his phone and stared at the screen.
A message.
No name. Just a number.
No words.
Only an image.
He turned the screen toward me.
It was a photo—taken just moments ago. We were in it, walking arm in arm, exactly as we had been seconds earlier.
But I didn’t look at us.
My eyes locked on the background.
Across the street, under a flickering streetlamp, stood a figure. Dark coat. Hood up. Motionless. Watching.
“Is this… recent?” I asked, though I already knew.
Francis didn’t answer. His grip on the phone tightened. His voice dropped, edged with something harder than fear.
“We’re being followed.”
Before I could speak, a sharp gust of wind barreled down the street. The lamp above us flickered once… twice…
Then went out.
Everything went still.
I turned back toward the café.
The figure was gone.
I felt my pulse quicken.
Then my phone buzzed in my coat pocket.
Another message.
> **You should’ve stayed away.**
I looked up—and froze.
Francis wasn’t beside me anymore.
He had vanished.
- Writer
