The café was louder than she remembered.
Not in an unpleasant way—just alive. Cups clinked against saucers, chairs scraped softly across the tiled floor, and an espresso machine hissed like it was impatient with everyone. The smell of coffee wrapped around Adeline the moment she stepped inside, warm and familiar, easing something tight in her chest.
She spotted Lila immediately.
Her friend sat by the window, one leg tucked under her, phone face-down on the table like she'd made a conscious decision to be present. When she saw Adeline, her face broke into a grin.
"There she is," Lila said as Adeline slid into the seat across from her. "I was starting to think you'd cancel."
Adeline dropped her bag to the floor and exhaled. "I almost did."
"Of course you did."
They shared a look—one that carried years of mutual understanding, of knowing when the other was spiraling even before the words caught up.
A barista came by, and Adeline ordered without really thinking. Black coffee. No sugar. She used to add cream, once upon a time. Somewhere along the line, she'd stopped.
Lila watched her over the rim of her mug.
"You look tired," she said.
Adeline snorted. "That's the nicest way anyone's said that to me this week."
"I'm serious," Lila pressed. "Not just tired-tired. You look like you've been holding your breath."
The words landed closer than Adeline expected.
She shrugged, rolling one shoulder. "It's just been a lot."
"That sentence should be engraved on adulthood's tombstone," Lila muttered. Then, softer, "Do you want to talk about it?"
Adeline hesitated.
She hadn't come here to unload. That had been the plan, anyway—to drink coffee, complain about work in vague terms, laugh about nothing, and pretend things were normal. But sitting there, surrounded by warmth and noise and someone who knew her too well, the restraint felt heavier than the truth.
"It's this issue at work," she said finally. "Paperwork. Deadlines. Things stacking on top of each other until I couldn't tell what actually mattered anymore."
Lila nodded slowly. "That sounds…on brand."
"Thanks."
"I mean it affectionately."
The barista returned with Adeline's coffee. She wrapped her hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into her palms.
"I was spiraling," she admitted. "Like, full-on. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't focus. Everything felt urgent."
"And now?" Lila asked.
Adeline paused.
"And now it doesn't," she said quietly.
That earned her a look.
Lila leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Okay. Pause. That doesn't just happen."
"I know."
"So," Lila said, drawing the word out, "what changed?"
Adeline stared into her coffee. The surface rippled slightly, distorted her reflection.
"Someone helped me," she said.
Lila's mouth twitched. "Someone."
"Yes."
"Plural?" Lila pushed.
"No."
Lila waited.
Adeline sighed. "Why do you interrogate like this?"
"Because you're avoiding eye contact and speaking in riddles," Lila said mildly. "Those are your tells."
Adeline huffed out a breath. "Fine. He helped me."
"He," Lila repeated, brows lifting. "Christopher?"
The name hit a nerve she hadn't realized was exposed.
"No," Adeline said too quickly. She corrected herself, forcing calm into her voice. "Not Christopher."
Lila's expression shifted—not surprised, exactly, but attentive in a sharper way.
"Oh."
"Oh?" Adeline echoed.
"That's…interesting," Lila said.
"There's nothing interesting about it," Adeline insisted. "It was purely practical. He's just good at that kind of thing."
"And who is he?" Lila asked gently.
Adeline hesitated. Just a beat too long.
"Marshall," she said.
Lila blinked. Once. Twice.
Then she leaned back in her chair.
"Okay," she said slowly. "That was not the name I was expecting."
Adeline winced. "I know how it sounds."
"How what sounds?" Lila asked. "You haven't said anything yet."
"That's exactly the problem."
They sat in silence for a moment, the noise of the café filling the space between them. Adeline felt suddenly exposed, like she'd handed over something fragile without wrapping it first.
"He didn't do anything wrong," she said quickly. "I called him because he knows how to…organize things. That's it."
"Mmm," Lila said.
Adeline shot her a look. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"That noise. That I'm humoring you but not convinced noise."
Lila smiled. "I can't help it if you're telling a story with gaps."
Adeline rubbed her temple. "It wasn't emotional. He didn't comfort me or anything like that. He just—listened. Asked questions. Helped me figure out what actually mattered."
"And that helped?" Lila asked.
"Yes."
"More than Christopher?"
The question slipped out before Lila could stop it.
Adeline stiffened.
"That's not—" She cut herself off, lips pressing together. "It's not a fair comparison."
Lila's voice softened. "I'm not trying to trap you. I'm trying to understand."
Adeline swallowed. "Christopher tries," she said. "He really does. He just…reacts. He wants to fix how I feel, not what's actually wrong."
"And Marshall?" Lila prompted.
Adeline hesitated again. "Marshall didn't try to make me feel better," she said slowly. "He made things clear."
Lila tilted her head. "That sounds…important."
"It shouldn't be," Adeline said immediately. "Clarity isn't intimacy."
"But it can be," Lila said.
Adeline shook her head. "No. I refuse to frame it like that."
"Why?"
"Because it opens doors that shouldn't exist," Adeline said, her voice sharper now. "Because it complicates things that are already complicated enough."
Lila studied her for a long moment.
"You're not doing anything wrong by being helped," she said finally.
"I know," Adeline said.
"And you're allowed to notice how it made you feel."
Adeline laughed, but it came out thin. "That's exactly what I'm not allowed to do."
Lila raised an eyebrow. "Says who?"
Adeline didn't answer right away.
She thought of Marshall at her dining table, sleeves rolled up, pen tapping thoughtfully against paper. The way he'd spoken to her like she was competent, capable—like she wasn't unraveling, just overwhelmed.
The way she'd laughed. Really laughed. For the first time in days.
She pushed the image away.
"You light up when you talk about him," Lila said quietly.
Adeline froze.
"That's not true."
"It is," Lila said. "Your shoulders relax. Your voice changes. You just did it again."
Adeline crossed her arms defensively. "You're projecting."
"Am I?" Lila asked. "Because I've known you for eight years, and you don't talk about Christopher like that."
"That's different."
"How?"
"He's my boyfriend," Adeline said, like that should explain everything.
Lila's gaze didn't waver. "Then why don't you feel that way about him?"
The question landed softly—and split something open.
Adeline opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
The café noise swelled around them, but she barely heard it. Her heart pounded, loud and insistent, like it was trying to answer for her.
"I—" she started, then stopped.
Lila didn't push. She just watched, patient and unflinching.
"I don't know," Adeline whispered finally.
The admission felt dangerous.
And once it was out, she couldn't pull it back.
They sat there in silence, the truth breathing between them, unspoken—but very much alive.