Late morning sunlight poured through the glass windows of the café. The hum of quiet conversation blended with the soft tune playing overhead. People sat alone with cups of coffee, eyes buried in holographic newspapers that flickered like ghostly paper. Brian sat at a corner table, facing Kate. Between them sat two untouched mugs. She looked tired, her expression pale and strained.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I wanted to see you that day, I really did. Work's just been insane."
The man reached across the table, his hand wrapping tightly around hers. "Kate… there's something I need to tell you."
She blinked, cautious. "What is it?"
He hesitated, his throat dry. "By mid-September… I have to— Kate, I'm sorry."
Her face froze. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then she bit her lip hard, pushing away from the table. "So this is how it ends, huh?"
"Caitlyn, wait—" The slap came fast and sharp.
Smack!
Every head in the café turned toward them. Brian sat there, stunned, cheek burning red.
"I can't keep with this anymore, Brian," she said, her voice trembling but firm. "This has to stop. We're done." She pulled her hand free and stormed toward the door. The bell above it jingled once, and then she was gone.
For a long moment, the world was silent. The music faded, and the crowd became static noise. All Brian could hear was the faint, ringing buzz in his ears—like the aftermath of a gunshot.
He exhaled, slow and hollow, dropped a few bills on the table, and walked out.
The city's traffic crawled like a tired machine. Four lanes of red brake lights stretched endlessly ahead. Brian drove pointlessly toward the west, where the sun bled down between the buildings.
As he passed the old theater—the one where he'd once taken Kate on their first date—his reflection flickered in the window glass. Taxi lights and streetlamps blurred together like an old memory, and for the first time in months, tears slid down his face.
"You dumb, hehe," he muttered, half-laughing through the ache. "Fucking idiot!" He laughed harder, the sound breaking apart until it turned into quiet sobs.
That night, Brian checked into a roadside motel just beyond the city limits. The neon signs outside blinked in tired reds and blues, flickering against the cracked asphalt.
He stepped outside for air. Steam hissed from a sewer grate nearby, catching the light like ghostly smoke. He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled slowly—like he could blow all the pain out with the smoke.
For a moment, it almost worked.
Then he went back inside, tossing the half-burned cigarette into the gutter. He dropped onto the soft motel bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling light. His legs hung over the side, his boots still on. The white light above him buzzed faintly.
Across the room stood a single steel chair beside a mirror wall. The reflection stared back at him—tired eyes, tight jaw. He pressed a pillow over his face, as if he could drown out everything—the noise, the memory, the guilt.
That's when he heard it. "...As promised."
A man's voice. Distant. Cold. Followed by the metallic click of a gun hammer being pulled back—then a shot.
Bang!
"Have we met before?" asked a woman's voice—British, soft but haunting.
More voices followed, overlapping, echoing inside his skull.
"Maybe life could've been better, Brian," one said.
"I love you. You're like a sister to me," said another—his own voice, though he couldn't remember ever saying it. "Promise me," a second woman whispered, closer this time. "Promise we'll see it through. Everything we planned."
"This time," his voice replied, steady, breaking through the static. "It'll work. I promise… and maybe we'll meet again."
Then came a laugh—light, familiar. "Wake up already, sleepyhead! Ha-ha!"
And suddenly—
"Promise me, you won't end up like your father!" His mother's voice—screaming, tearing through the air. "Shut up! Just shut the hell up!" Brian roared, springing up from the bed. He grabbed the pillow and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a dull thud. The anger came flooding in, raw and wild. He grabbed the steel chair and smashed it into the mirror. Glass exploded in a thousand shards. His reflection fractured into countless pieces staring back at him.
"Stop looking at me!" he shouted, stomping down on the broken glass until it turned to dust beneath his heel. He stood there, chest heaving, surrounded by fragments of himself. Outside, engines roared down the freeway.