The café was quieter than usual that afternoon. Outside, the rain had thinned to a fine mist, turning the street into a watercolor of gray and gold.
Elara moved behind the counter, her mind still echoing with the clatter of train tracks and the fading warmth of a hand she could no longer hold. The vision had felt longer this time — deeper, like sinking into memory instead of drifting over it.
Ciel watched her from his usual seat by the window, sketchbook closed for once. His gaze wasn't searching for shapes to draw — it was fixed on her, steady and gentle, but edged with concern.
When she finally brought him his cup of chamomile latte, he spoke softly.
"You seem… tired today."
"Just didn't sleep well," she said, forcing a small smile.
"Or maybe," he said carefully, "you were somewhere else again."
The words stopped her breath. She tried to hide it, but his eyes caught the flicker of surprise before she could look away.
"What do you mean?" she asked, voice too even to sound natural.
"Sometimes," he murmured, thumb circling the rim of his cup, "you look like you're seeing something I can't. And when you come back, there's always this sadness in your eyes."
She wanted to laugh it off, to say he was imagining things. But the tenderness in his voice, the quiet ache behind the question, made her chest tighten.
"I… drift," she admitted softly. "Sometimes my mind slips. It's nothing, really."
"Does it hurt?"
The question was so unexpected it stole the air from her lungs.
"No," she whispered. "Not the way you mean. It just… leaves a mark, I guess."
He studied her, as if trying to read words she hadn't spoken.
"I wish you'd let me see what you see," he said quietly.
For a heartbeat, she almost told him everything: the blackouts, the parallel lives, the endless Tuesdays where she found him and lost him over and over again. The memory of the hospital goodbye, the train window, the blue curtains dancing in a life that never lasted.
"It would only scare you," she whispered, barely audible.
"Maybe," he said, "but I'd rather be afraid with you than watch you be afraid alone."
His words settled into the quiet between them, heavy and gentle all at once. Elara felt her throat tighten.
Please stay, her heart whispered. Even if you never know why I'm afraid.
Before she could answer, a customer called from the other end of the counter, breaking the moment. She turned away, hiding her trembling hands.
When she looked back, Ciel had opened his sketchbook again, pencil moving softly over the page.
But his gaze flickered to her, worried, every few lines — as if to make sure she was still here, still breathing, still hers.
Outside, the rain began again — thin and hesitant, like a question left unspoken. And in the quiet hum of the café, Elara wondered how much longer she could keep her secret, and what it would cost them when she couldn't anymore.