The clink of cutlery and the low hum of chatter filled the cozy corner of the café, but Naomi barely tasted the pasta cooling on her fork. Her gaze kept drifting past Tasha to the street outside, where the world moved on without a care, while her mind looped the same maddening name—Jeremiah.
She stabbed a piece of chicken like it had personally wronged her. Maybe I should just send his stuff back, she murmured, the words slipping out before she could stop them. I have no use for them anyway.
Tasha's fork froze halfway to her mouth. "Girl, don't do that." Her eyes narrowed in warning, the way they always did before she launched into one of her fiery pep talks. "I thought the whole plan was to make him pay—emotional damage, slow burn style. You know, let him stew in regret."
Naomi let out a humorless laugh, twirling her fork aimlessly. "Yeah… but I'm so tired, Tash. Every time I see his things, it's like he's still here—still in my space. I don't want him in my head anymore. I just… I just want it gone. All of it."
Her fingers tightened around the fork, the metal biting into her skin. Across the table, Tasha leaned back, eyes studying her like she was a puzzle missing too many pieces. The café's warm lamplight caught the silver rim of Tasha's coffee cup, but Naomi didn't notice—her mind was already back in that apartment, surrounded by ghosts she couldn't pack into a box.
Hey, didn't know you take coffee here too,Micheal soft voice broke the silence between the both of them.Naomi hadn't realized he was there. Her breath caught. She forced a smile, her chest tightening at the sound of him.
At the other edge of the café, Michael sat with his back turned, a half-empty cup of coffee in front of him, his quiet presence almost invisible. She and Tasha had spoken freely, never once suspecting they had an audience.It wasnt until his chair scraped lightly against the floor that Naomi's wandering thoughts snapped back. Michael rose, cup in hand, and walked toward them, His voice, soft and steady, drifted across the space."Hello, she echoed, her tone lighter than she felt.He studied her for a moment, the corner of his mouth tugging as though he already knew more than she wanted him to. "You must be Naomi, the girl—""Yes," Naomi cut in quickly, the word spilling from her lips before he could finish. Not because of Tasha. Not because of what he might have heard here. But because the memory of his eyes finding hers in the office restroom—the same eyes that had caught her red-handed, broken and crying—still burned hot in her chest. She wasn't ready for him to pull that truth into the open, not here, not now,not with Tasha watching her very closely.
Only hours ago, she had sworn to her best friend she was done with the tears, done locking herself away in the restroom, hiding her face in trembling palms.But Michael had seen her.The memory hit her like a blow: the creak of the restroom door, her head snapping up from the sink, eyes wet, cheeks flushed. His startled pause in the doorway, the quiet way he'd looked at her, like he'd walked in on something fragile he had no right to witness. She had wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.And now, with Tasha across the table, her warm gaze darting between them, Naomi's pulse skittered. If Michael so much as hinted at it—if he even breathed the word restroom—Tasha would know. She would know that Naomi had lied, that her "I'm fine now" had been nothing but a mask.So she cut him off. Too fast. Too obvious. Her smile wavered as she forced herself to meet his eyes, silently pleading with him not to continue, not to uncover the rawness she had tried so hard to bury beneath laughter and empty reassurances.
"Well, I'm Tasha—Naomi's friend," Tasha said, her tone light, deliberately slicing through the awkward stillness that had wrapped around their table.Michael's lips curved into a polite smile. "Nice meeting you, Tasha." His voice was calm, almost too calm, as he straightened and made his way out of the café. The bell over the door chimed softly behind him, leaving a hush in his absence.
Naomi's shoulders sagged the moment he was gone, a long, shaky breath slipping past her lips before she could catch it. It wasn't loud, but it was enough.Tasha's brow arched as her eyes flicked back to Naomi. "Oh God," Naomi whispered under her breath, pressing her palms against her cup as if the heat might steady her trembling fingers.That was all it took. Tasha leaned in, studying her friend with a spark of curiosity—and suspicion—dancing in her eyes.
"What now, Tash?" she asked, her tone a mixture of irritation and weariness, though the way her fingers tightened on the ceramic betrayed her attempt at control.
Tasha arched a brow, unfazed. She leaned back in her chair, arms folding across her chest, studying Naomi with the kind of patience that wasn't really patience at all—more like a cat toying with its prey.
"What now?" she echoed softly, lips twitching into the beginnings of a grin.
"You tell me. Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like Mr. Smooth just walked out and left you rattled enough to burn holes into your coffee."
Naomi's jaw worked, a thousand explanations battling for release, but none making it past her lips. She forced a small laugh instead, brittle at the edges. "You're imagining things."And you know his name,and it's not mr.smooth.
But Tasha's eyes glittered with knowing, and she leaned forward again, lowering her voice until it was just between them. "Am I?"