I didn't know where to rest my eyes anymore. Every time I tried to look somewhere else, they drifted back to him…
that stranger, sitting only a few meters away.
His coffee was growing cold, untouched, but his eyes—God, his eyes—never softened. They stayed on me with a kind of burning quiet that made my skin prickle. It wasn't a demanding stare, not exactly… but a weight. Like he knew something about me I hadn't even admitted to myself.
My throat tightened. It wasn't just his face—too perfect, too composed—or that dark, magnetic presence he carried with him. No. It was the silence he embodied, the kind that cut sharper than words.
And then there was Jackson.
Right in front of me. Far too close.
His fragile smile tried to look confident, but his eyes betrayed him. My heart beat unevenly, torn between the past I'd run from and the present pressing in on me.
"Avery? Are you listening?"
I almost jumped. His voice snapped me back so suddenly it hurt. Jackson was frowning, trying to catch my gaze the way someone tries to catch a hand slipping away. I must've seemed distant… or worse, distracted by someone else.
And that single possibility made guilt stab through me.
"Sorry," I whispered, turning my eyes away. "I was thinking about… something else."
A lie. Again.
The words slid out of my mouth like the easiest escape.
Jackson nodded, but he wasn't fooled.
His look lingered—insistent, searching, heavy with everything he wanted to say but didn't dare voice. He held back.
"Do you want to talk for a bit?" he asked quietly, almost like he was afraid of the answer.
My first instinct was to retreat.
Not outwardly, but inside.
Like my heart was building a wall. Hiding, dodging, disappearing into work.
"I… I have to handle the orders," I said, gesturing vaguely toward the counter. "Customers, orders… you know."
A clumsy lie. I had nothing to do, nowhere to run.
And of course, Sam picked that exact moment to get involved.
"Come on, Avery!" he called out, smiling wide. "I got this. Don't worry. Go take a breather, it'll do you good."
I shot him a murderous look.
Pure betrayal.
But it was too late—Jackson had already seized the opportunity.
A fake smile tugged at my lips.
"Thanks, Sam… really."
(I said it with all the irony possible.)
My legs moved almost on their own. Reluctantly, I followed Jackson to a table by the big window.
Every step felt heavier than the last, like I was sinking into the floor.
We sat.
And silence fell.
A thick, suffocating silence.
Jackson began fidgeting with the silver ring on his thumb—a nervous tic he'd always had.
I stared at my clasped hands, refusing to look up.
Still, I felt everything.
His unease.
His need to speak.
His fear of saying too much.
That was Jackson in a nutshell: pride and fragility woven together.
And a small part of me—against my will—wanted to break the silence.
But no words crossed my lips.
In the end, he spoke first.
"Avery… how are you?"
A simple question, but the tension in his voice made it almost painful.
He inhaled deeply, steadied himself, and added,
"I guess you're fine, since you came today."
I finally lifted my eyes.
What I saw disarmed me: beneath the mask of confidence, there was raw worry, poorly hidden. Jackson had always been incapable of lying with his eyes.
"Yeah, I'm fine," I said, placing my hands on the table to look composed. "And you?"
"I'm good too."
"Great. So… you wanted to talk?"
He nodded, glancing down for a moment.
"Yeah. It's about yesterday."
My stomach twisted.
Of course.
Yesterday.
What else?
"Yesterday how?" I asked, crossing my arms tight against my chest.
"What happened… in the bathroom."
I raised my eyebrows slightly, pretending not to care.
"You want to know if I broke the mirror, is that it?"
A few seconds of silence stretched out.
I swallowed hard as the memories clawed their way back.
"No, it wasn't me. Something weird happened. And… it shattered."
The word left my mouth reluctantly, like speaking it made the fear real all over again.
Jackson's brows knit together.
"Weird how?"
I shook my head, irritated.
"Something weird, Jackson, I don't know!"
"You could be more specific—"
"Specific?" I snapped, my voice rising. "How can I be specific when I don't even understand what happened?"
I leaned toward him, my eyes locking onto his.
"But why do you care so much, Jackson?"
He looked away—classic tell.
"No reason. It's just… it's gonna cost a fortune to fix, that's all."
I let out a bitter laugh.
"So you're here to ask me for damages for your friend? Don't worry, I'll handle it."
I started to stand, but he grabbed my arm.
That touch.
Sharp.
A cold rush climbed up my skin.
And with it, memories.
Pieces of us, from before.
A painful nostalgia mixed with a quiet anger I'd kept buried.
I yanked my arm back, eyes locked on his.
Before I could speak, a shiver ran through me.
That gaze again.
The stranger.
I didn't have to turn my head to feel him.
His presence filled the air like a shadow.
Slowly, my eyes drifted toward him.
And I saw his expression change.
That half-smile—mysterious, inviting—was gone.
His face was tense, almost displeased.
A strange pressure hummed between us, like something about this moment bothered him.
My heart tightened.
A question burned on my tongue:
Who is he? And why can't he stop watching us?
I pulled myself together.
Folded my emotions back into place.
Then, with a steadier voice than I felt, I whispered:
"Jackson… leave."
He hesitated, startled.
His eyes darkened with hurt for a moment, but he stood.
Before leaving, though, he shot one last look—not at me,
but at the stranger.
A heavy look, almost hostile.
And in that brief, silent exchange, something unspoken passed between them.
A tension, as if they both already knew they were going to matter in my story.
Jackson walked out.
And I stayed there, alone.
With the silence.
With the two gazes that had stripped me bare, each in their own way.
And I couldn't tell which one scared me the most.
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