Chapter 2 – What We Don't Say
I told myself I wasn't going to look for him again.
That running into Liam at the café had been coincidence. That sitting down at his table had been politeness. That agreeing to stay for a second cup of coffee had been nothing more than curiosity dressed up as gratitude.
But three days later, I found myself walking past the bookstore on Maple and Third.
It was closed again. Of course it was.
The sign still flickered.
OOKS.
The rain was gone, replaced by sharp autumn sunlight that made everything look more honest than I felt.
I stood there longer than I needed to.
Waiting.
For what, I wasn't entirely sure.
"Looking for something?"
The voice came from behind me this time.
I turned too quickly, heart jumping in a way that annoyed me.
Liam stood a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of a charcoal sweater, camera strap slung diagonally across his chest. No umbrella today. No rain to justify his presence.
"You're stalking me," I said.
He tilted his head. "You're standing in the exact spot we met."
"That doesn't mean I was waiting for you."
"No?" A faint smile tugged at his mouth. "Then what were you waiting for?"
I opened my mouth to answer and realized I didn't have one.
"Exactly," he said softly.
I crossed my arms. "You assume a lot."
"I observe."
"That's not better."
"It's more accurate."
He stepped closer, but not into my space. Close enough that I could see the tiny scar near his eyebrow I hadn't noticed before.
"What are you really doing here, Maya?"
The question felt heavier than it should have.
I exhaled slowly. "I don't know."
It was the truth.
The days since the breakup had blurred together—work, home, silence. My apartment felt different now. Larger. Emptier. I kept expecting to hear Daniel's keys in the door. Kept reaching for my phone to text him something insignificant before remembering there was no longer a reason to.
"You don't have to pretend with me," Liam said.
"I'm not pretending."
He gave me a look that clearly said otherwise.
"Okay," I admitted. "Maybe I wanted to see if it felt different."
"What did?"
"This spot." I gestured vaguely around us. "If it still felt like the worst night of my life."
"And?"
I looked at the bookstore door. The cracked paint. The dust on the inside of the glass.
"It doesn't," I said quietly.
His expression shifted—not triumphant, not smug. Just… warm.
"Good," he said.
We stood there in a comfortable silence that surprised me with its ease.
"So," he said after a moment, "I was on my way to shoot something nearby."
"Oh?"
"Community art fair. Kids painting murals. It's chaotic and badly organized."
"Sounds thrilling."
"It is, actually."
I narrowed my eyes. "You're serious."
"Very."
He pulled his camera slightly forward like proof.
"Come with me."
The invitation landed gently but firmly.
"I don't think I'm in the mood for chaos."
"That's exactly why you should come."
I hesitated.
Three days ago, I would have said no without thinking. I would have gone home, curled up on my couch, and scrolled through old photos I claimed I had deleted.
But something about standing here, in daylight, made staying still feel dangerous.
"Fine," I said. "But if I get paint on my shoes, I'm blaming you."
"I'll accept full responsibility."
The art fair was louder than I expected.
Music drifted from a small speaker near the center of the park. Kids darted between folding tables, hands stained blue and red and yellow. Parents hovered with paper towels and mild panic.
Liam moved through the crowd differently than anyone else.
Not rushed. Not intrusive.
Intent.
He lifted his camera only after watching for several seconds, as if he needed to understand a moment before capturing it.
I hung back at first, unsure of where to place myself.
"You can wander," he told me without looking away from his lens. "You don't have to orbit me."
"I'm not orbiting."
"You're within a three-foot radius."
"I don't know what to do."
"Look."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
So I looked.
At a little girl determinedly painting a crooked sun in the corner of her mural. At a teenage boy pretending he wasn't carefully blending colors. At a woman laughing as her toddler stamped tiny handprints across poster board.
And slowly, without realizing it, I stopped thinking about Daniel.
"Hold this?"
I turned to find Liam offering me an extra lens.
I took it carefully. "If I drop this, I assume it costs more than my rent."
"It does."
My eyes widened.
"I'm kidding," he said. "Probably."
"You're not funny."
"You laughed."
I didn't respond.
He shifted positions, crouching slightly to frame a shot of two siblings arguing over a paintbrush. The sunlight caught in his hair, and for a second, I forgot to breathe.
It wasn't attraction, exactly.
It was awareness.
He was fully present in whatever he was doing. There was no half-attention. No distracted scrolling. No checking his phone every three minutes.
Daniel had always been somewhere else, even when he was sitting next to me.
"Why photography?" I asked when he straightened.
He adjusted a setting before answering. "It makes sense to me."
"That's vague."
"I like proof."
"Proof of what?"
"That something happened. That it mattered."
The words sank deeper than he probably intended.
"And you think this matters?" I gestured toward the messy joy around us.
"I think moments always matter to someone."
He glanced at me then.
"Sometimes especially when they don't seem important."
I looked away first.
We ended up sitting on the grass after he finished, sharing a bottle of water he insisted I take the first sip of.
"You're different today," he said.
"How?"
"Less… breakable."
I bristled slightly. "I'm not breakable."
"Everyone is."
"That's optimistic."
"It's realistic."
A breeze lifted a strand of hair across my face. Without thinking, he reached out—
Then stopped.
His hand hovered briefly between us before dropping back to his side.
The almost-touch lingered longer than it should have.
"You said she was right to leave," I said abruptly.
He didn't pretend not to understand.
"Yes."
"Why?"
He leaned back on his hands, staring up at the sky.
"I was distracted," he said after a moment. "By work. By my own head. I thought loving someone meant they'd just… stay."
"And it doesn't?"
"No." His voice was steady. "Loving someone means showing up."
The simplicity of it hit me.
Daniel had loved me. I think he had.
But had he shown up?
Had I?
"What happened?" I asked softly.
"She got tired of waiting for me to be present."
There was no bitterness in his tone. Just recognition.
"That's very self-aware."
"It took me a while to get there."
I picked at a blade of grass. "He said I needed too much reassurance."
"Did you?"
"I don't think so." I paused. "Maybe."
Liam turned his head to look at me fully.
"Needing reassurance isn't a flaw," he said. "It's communication."
I swallowed.
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"How?"
"Because I used to think needing anything at all made someone weak." He held my gaze. "I was wrong."
The vulnerability in his expression made my chest ache in a way that felt dangerous.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.
"Because you're standing at a crossroads and pretending you're not."
My breath caught.
"I just went through a breakup," I said. "It's not that dramatic."
"It can be."
The park felt quieter suddenly, though the noise hadn't changed.
"I'm not looking for anything," I said quickly.
"I didn't say you were."
"But if you think—"
"I don't think anything," he interrupted gently. "I'm just here."
The words should have been simple.
They weren't.
We walked back toward the main street together.
"So what now?" I asked as we reached the corner.
"Now?"
"Do we just… run into each other in emotionally significant locations?"
He smiled slightly. "That would be on-brand."
I hesitated, then took a small leap.
"There's an open mic night at the café tomorrow," I said. "I usually go. I don't perform. I just listen."
"And you're telling me this because…?"
"Because," I exhaled, "you can come. If you want."
He studied me for a second, like he was measuring the weight of the invitation.
"I'd like that," he said.
The simplicity of his answer steadied something in me.
"Okay."
"Okay."
We stood there a beat too long.
"This is the part where one of us leaves," I said.
"Right."