life as poems 'n letters

On the corner of a peaceful street sits a little cafe, the kind of place where time stands still and the aroma of roasted coffee and unsaid words fills the air. People go there to reflect, to wait, to remember.

She sit down by the window and trace absent patterns on the wooden table with her fingers. It seems familiar. Not because she’s been here before, but because she’s been in a similar situation before, sitting across from someone whose presence used to make the world seem smaller, softer, and easier to understand.

This is the kind of place he used to love.

The smoke would curl into the air like an unfinished thought as he sat with a cigarette between his fingers. He had a wandering mind that gradually pieced things together. And she admired his ability to take even the most basic observation to interesting conversation. His ability to give meaning to even the slightest moments.

They talked about everything.

The words stretched between them like bridges. He would talk slowly and deliberately, as if he were meticulously assembling each aspect of himself one at a time. And she paid attention—not just to what he was saying, but also to the weight of it.

But what she didn’t see then—what she didn’t want to see—was that he never gave her the full picture. Just pieces. He told her stories, but omitted the important pages. He gave her hope for something complete when she was really just clinging to fragments.

And she didn’t ask for more when she eventually saw the missing pieces.

She didn’t fight for explanations or demand the truth. She simply left.

However, there are times like this when she sit in a café that has a nostalgic scent, hear the faint murmur of conversation, and catch a glimpse of a lighter flickering out of the corner of her eye, and she question whether she should have said something before leaving. Should she have given him time to explain? If she needed closure, she should have asked for it rather than having to create it on her own.

However, some tales come to end. There are some unanswered questions. And some places are only meant to be visited by one person.

She encircled the cup with her hands and allow the warmth to spread through her palms. The world outside goes on as it always does.

And so does she.