April hadn't meant to go back to the café. Not after everything.
It was only supposed to be a quick stop, a brief detour between errands. She told herself she needed the comfort of routine—the hiss of the espresso machine, the familiar chatter of strangers, the scent of roasted beans clinging to the air. Maybe, just maybe, it would steady the ache in her chest.
She pushed open the glass door, the little bell above it chiming. The sound struck her like a memory. It had been there, on a rainy afternoon months ago, that Brandy first offered her a smile. That smile had unraveled her in ways she still hadn't fully understood.
She drew in a steadying breath, ignoring the pang in her stomach, and walked to the counter. The barista greeted her warmly, but April's mind was elsewhere, caught in the tug of old echoes. She ordered mechanically—her usual caramel latte—and settled by the window, pulling out a notebook she didn't really intend to write in.
Outside, the city hummed with its late-afternoon rhythm. Cars rolled past, people bustled on the sidewalks, but inside the café, time seemed to fold in on itself. Every detail whispered his name—the corner seat where he had once teased her about her handwriting, the table where they had shared muffins, the low light that had softened his smile into something tender.
She swallowed hard, gripping her pen tighter.
And then she heard it.
That voice. Deep, warm, slightly rough around the edges.
"Black coffee, please. To go."
Her pulse stumbled.
Slowly, cautiously, she turned her head.
There he was.
Brandy stood at the counter, his broad shoulders tense beneath a dark jacket, his hair slightly disheveled as if he'd run his hands through it too many times. His profile was achingly familiar—the curve of his jaw, the crease between his brows when he was lost in thought.
April's breath caught in her throat. She wanted to look away, to vanish into the wood of the table, but her eyes betrayed her, drinking him in as if he were water and she had been dying of thirst.
Brandy accepted his cup with a curt nod, murmured thanks, and turned—only to freeze when his gaze collided with hers.
For a moment, the world went silent.
No traffic. No chatter. No hum of machines. Just the sharp, electric thrum of two hearts stumbling into each other again.
April's fingers tightened on her pen until it nearly snapped. She felt heat climb her neck, her chest. She wanted to speak, but the words tangled in her throat.
Brandy's jaw worked, his grip tightening on his cup. He hadn't expected this. He hadn't prepared for the way seeing her again would feel like both a wound reopening and a balm poured over it.
Against his better judgment, he walked toward her table. Each step felt like crossing a battlefield, every inch pulling him deeper into the gravity of her presence.
"April." His voice was low, uncertain, carrying a weight that made her chest constrict.
"Brandy." Her reply was barely more than a whisper, but it carried his name like a prayer.
For a heartbeat, they simply stared at each other. The silence between them brimmed with everything unsaid—the anger, the hurt, the longing, the love still pulsing beneath it all.
Finally, Brandy gestured to the empty chair across from her. "May I?"
April hesitated, then nodded, her throat too tight to speak.
He sat, setting his coffee down. His hands curled around the paper cup, not for warmth but for grounding.
Neither spoke at first. Their eyes met, darted away, found each other again. It was unbearable, and yet neither could look away for long.
April was the first to break. "I didn't think I'd see you here."
"Me neither," Brandy said quietly. "I almost didn't come in."
Her lips curved faintly, bittersweet. "Fate has a cruel sense of humor."
He huffed a dry laugh, but it didn't reach his eyes.
Silence stretched again. The air between them crackled, heavy with the weight of what they hadn't said since the fight. April's chest ached with the urge to bridge the distance, but fear held her still.
Brandy was the one who finally leaned forward, his voice rough. "April… I—" He faltered, his throat tight. He wanted to apologize, to tell her he'd been wrong, to beg her not to give up on them. But the words tangled, caught between pride and vulnerability.
April's eyes glistened, though she refused to let the tears fall. "Do you ever think about us?"
The question cut through him like glass.
"Every damn day," he admitted, his voice breaking. "You're in everything. In every song I play, every place I go. I can't—" He broke off, shaking his head. "I can't escape you, April. And I don't want to."
Her breath hitched, her heart twisting painfully. She clenched her notebook shut, pressing it to her chest. "I remember everything, Brandy. The river. The stars. That night you told me you loved me. I carry it all. And it hurts because…" She looked away, her voice trembling. "Because I don't know if love is enough anymore."
The words struck like thunder. Brandy's hand clenched on his cup until it buckled.
He leaned forward, urgency flaring in his eyes. "Don't say that. Don't you dare say that. Love is the only thing that's enough. It has to be."
April's tears slipped free, tracing down her cheeks. "Then why does it feel like we're tearing each other apart?"
The question hung in the air, raw and unanswerable.
For a moment, neither could breathe.
Brandy reached across the table, his fingers trembling as they brushed against hers. The contact was electric—pain and comfort colliding. April didn't pull away.
"Because we're scared," he whispered. "Because I'm scared. Of losing you. Of not being enough for you. Of watching you walk away and never coming back."
Her eyes met his, wet and luminous. "And I'm scared of staying. Of choosing you and losing myself. Of resenting the life I didn't take."
The honesty between them cut deeper than anger ever could.
Their hands stayed linked across the table, fragile and desperate.
"I don't have all the answers," Brandy murmured. "But I know one thing. I'd rather fight for us, break a hundred times and glue the pieces back together, than let you go. Because letting you go—April, that would kill me."
April's chest heaved, her tears falling freely now. "You make it sound so simple."
"It's not," he admitted, his voice hoarse. "But nothing worth keeping ever is."
The café bustled around them, oblivious. But at that small corner table, April and Brandy sat on the precipice of something fragile, something terrifying, something achingly alive.
For the first time since their fight, hope flickered. Faint, trembling, but real.