Sameer never believed in signs.
He believed in routines.
Morning coffee at the same stall.
The same road to work.
The same quiet evenings that ended without surprises.
Life felt safer that way.
Until the day Anjum didn't stay.
The café was loud that evening.
Too loud for someone who preferred silence.
Sameer sat near the window, his back straight, fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee that had already gone cold. Outside, the city moved like it always did—cars rushing, people crossing roads without looking back, lives colliding and separating without apology.
Inside, everything felt paused.
He checked his phone.
No message.
That wasn't unusual. Anjum wasn't the kind of person who texted constantly. She believed conversations mattered more when they happened face to face. Still, something about the silence felt heavier today.
He glanced at the door.
Then again.
And again.
He told himself he wasn't waiting.
But when the bell above the café door finally rang, his heart reacted before his mind did.
Anjum stepped inside.
For a moment, the noise around them faded.
She stood there, just inside the doorway, scanning the room like she wasn't sure she belonged in it anymore. Her hair was loose today, falling over her shoulders in soft waves. She wore the same neutral expression she always did in public—calm, controlled, unreadable.
But Sameer noticed the small things.
The way her shoulders were slightly tense.
The way her eyes searched for him first.
Their gazes met.
Something passed between them.
Not relief.
Not excitement.
Something uncertain.
She walked toward him, slow and deliberate, as if each step required permission from herself.
"Hey," she said softly.
"Hey," Sameer replied, standing up instinctively.
They didn't hug. They didn't smile.
That, too, felt different.
She sat across from him, placing her bag neatly beside the chair. Her hands rested on the table, fingers loosely intertwined. Sameer noticed how still she was, like she was bracing herself for something.
"You're early," she said.
"So are you."
A pause.
She looked away first.
They ordered coffee without really thinking about it. The barista asked the usual questions. Sameer answered automatically. Anjum stayed quiet.
When the cups arrived, steam rising between them, the silence returned—thick and uncomfortable.
"So," Sameer said finally, trying to sound casual, "you said you wanted to talk."
Anjum nodded.
"Yes."
She didn't say anything else.
He waited.
She took a breath. Then another.
"I might be leaving," she said.
The words landed gently.
The impact wasn't.
Sameer didn't react immediately. He had learned long ago that some sentences needed time to settle before they made sense.
"Leaving?" he repeated.
"For a while," she added quickly. "Maybe longer."
"Where?"
She hesitated. "Out of the city."
That was all.
No explanation.
No details.
No timeline.
Sameer leaned back slightly, studying her face. "And when were you planning to tell me?"
"I just did."
"That's not what I meant," he said quietly.
Anjum looked at him then, really looked at him. "I didn't know how."
The honesty in her voice stopped him from pushing further.
"Is it work?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And only work?"
She didn't answer immediately.
That was answer enough.
Sameer nodded slowly. "When?"
"I don't know," she said. "Soon."
Soon.
Such a small word.
Such a dangerous one.
They talked after that, but not about what mattered.
Sameer spoke about his day. Anjum nodded at the right moments. She smiled once or twice, but it didn't reach her eyes.
He wanted to ask a hundred questions.
Why now?
Why so suddenly?
Why does it feel like you've already decided?
But he didn't.
He had always been careful not to corner people he cared about.
Outside, the sky darkened. Lights flickered on across the street. The café began to empty slowly, conversations fading into background noise.
Anjum checked her phone.
Sameer noticed the tension return to her shoulders.
"Do you have to go?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. Then, softer, "I should."
They stood near the door, facing each other in that awkward space where something wants to be said but isn't.
"Sameer," she began.
He waited.
"I don't want you to think—"
"That you're leaving because of me?" he finished.
She looked relieved. "Yes."
He smiled faintly. "I didn't."
"That's not true," she said gently.
"Maybe not," he admitted. "But I'm trying."
Her lips curved into a sad smile. "You always try to understand."
"Someone has to," he replied.
Another pause.
This one felt final.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "I don't know what this is yet."
He met her gaze. "Then don't name it."
She swallowed. "And if I leave?"
"Then you leave," he said. "I won't stop you."
Her eyes filled instantly.
"That's not what I wanted to hear."
He sighed. "Then what did you want?"
"I wanted you to fight," she whispered.
The words hit him harder than he expected.
He searched her face, trying to read what she wasn't saying. "If I fight," he said slowly, "will you stay?"
She didn't answer.
That was enough.
Sameer nodded, once. "That's why I'm not fighting."
Tears slipped down her cheeks. She wiped them away quickly, embarrassed.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," she said.
"I know."
"And you?" she asked quietly. "Are you okay?"
He smiled, the kind of smile people use when they don't want to explain their pain. "I will be."
She hesitated, then hugged him.
It wasn't sudden. It wasn't desperate.
It was careful.
Like both of them were afraid this moment might mean more than they were ready to admit.
Sameer wrapped his arms around her, breathing in the familiar scent he didn't know he would miss so soon.
When she pulled away, she looked at him like she wanted to remember his face.
"I'll call," she said.
"I know."
She stepped outside.
The bell rang softly behind her.
Sameer stayed where he was, watching through the glass as she walked away, blending into the city like she belonged to it more than she belonged with him.
For the first time in years, Sameer felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest.
Not heartbreak.
Not yet.
It was the feeling that something important had just begun—
and might already be ending.