She had thought she'd mastered the art of solitude after her grandfather passed away. She'd adjusted, even thrived, in her quiet little world. But the faint, persistent twinge in her face—those involuntary winces that caught her off guard—told another story. Healing, it seemed, was not linear. So she returned to the city where she'd spent her teenage years, hoping that its familiar streets, once brimming with life and memory, might offer some kind of solace.
The city pulsed with life and shimmered with change. It had grown, morphed into something more polished, less forgiving. Cafés now charged more than she remembered, but the experiences she gathered in exchange were oddly priceless. She didn't know exactly what she was looking for—perhaps clarity, perhaps closure—but she told herself that if she could find even a sliver of peace, she'd cling to it.
The night before she left again, she came face to face with him—or rather, a glossy version of him. His face adorned a poster near a convenience store: light green shirt, pressed white slacks, coffee cup in hand—the portrait of easy elegance. She paused, smirked, and mockingly tapped the glass, a silent jab at the perfection of his public image.
The next day, curiosity got the better of her. She searched his name online, and by sunset, she had subscribed to a streaming platform. Every show, every movie he appeared in—she watched them all. Calian was both a model and an actor. He often played the villain—his chiseled face and brooding presence made him a natural fit—but those who truly followed him knew better. Beneath the roles and reputation, he was gentle. A sweetheart. He hosted feel-good shows, popped up in variety programs, and somehow, despite everything, became her escape.
He had wounded her, yet in a strange twist, he'd also soothed her. Her days brightened with him on screen, folded into her routines like sugar into coffee. Everything was comfortably numb—until Andrea started appearing at the café.
Andrea wasn't openly hostile. In fact, she seemed politely aloof, her visits marked by quiet smiles and unfinished drinks—always the same ones he used to order. She never struck up a conversation, never lingered long, but her presence unsettled Twyla. So, after two weeks, she broke the silence.
"You've been coming in every day, ordering the same thing, never finishing it. Is there something you need to say?"
Andrea's lips curled into a knowing smile.
"Why don't you sit?"
It was Twyla's café. Being told to sit in her own place sparked irritation, but she humored her and quickly took the seat. Andrea placed a delicate finger on her lips, chuckled softly, as if amused by Twyla's compliance.
"I just wanted to understand someone."
"You mean Calian, right?"
Andrea laughed again, gently.
"I'm beginning to understand why he liked it here. I doubt it was just the drinks."
"Hey!"
"I'll be coming by more often."
"No, don't!"
Andrea left in a fit of laughter, her back retreating through the door like a victory flag waving in the wind.
She kept returning. She started ordering different drinks, offering unwelcome advice Twyla harshly rebuffed. Her presence grated. Twyla couldn't bring herself to like a woman who had hurt the people she cared about—even if indirectly. But eventually, guilt crept in. She knew some of her bitterness came not from direct experience, but from old stories and secondhand pain. That didn't make her behavior fair, but kindness didn't feel right either. Something about Andrea just felt… off.
Why now?
And then, just like that, Andrea vanished. No goodbyes, no fading out—just gone. Twyla felt a confusing mix of relief and disappointment. With Andrea gone, she resumed her nightly routine of watching Calian's shows. But then the article dropped.
Calian and Andrea were back together.
His effort had paid off. She should've been happy for him. But she wasn't. And she hated herself for it. Only now, when he was truly out of reach, did she realize she loved him. The irony was cruel.
Just a week later, they walked into her café. Hand in hand.
"The corn tea's really good here! You've tried it, right?" Andrea asked with cheery confidence.
Twyla's jaw nearly dropped, but she forced it shut.
"Twyla? Are you okay?" Calian asked gently.
"Why? Do I not look okay?"
Her tone had teeth. She regretted it instantly. His brows furrowed.
"Did we come at a bad time?"
"No. We're open from 7 a.m. to 4 p.m. like always."
Silence fell.
The absurdity of it all made her laugh. It was bitter, cynical, but they mistook it for playfulness. She let them.
They ordered and took their seats by the window. They looked polished, sophisticated, almost otherworldly in their elegance. She didn't have to glance down to know she wore the same faded baggy pants and t-shirt she'd owned for years. As they were about to leave, Andrea turned to the counter, and Calian followed.
"Come to dinner at my place tonight," she said sweetly.
"Okay."
"There'll be others. Wear something nice."
"Oh, sure. Should I come in a gown?"
Sarcasm was thick in her voice. Calian looked concerned again.
She was ready to call it off. But that evening, she stood in front of Andrea's towering gate anyway. It was her first time seeing the place up close—nothing like the countryside homes she was used to. Sleek, modern, intimidating. She rubbed her nose nervously—a habit she'd picked up in moments of uncertainty. Her dress was plain beige, something she bought long ago, back when she still lived in the city.
A loud honk startled her. She was blocking the driveway. The gate opened automatically, and a sleek car glided in. Inside, a man glanced at her. He looked just like them, a celebrity. She realized the party might be full of them.
I should leave now.
She turned to go.
"Twyla!"
Andrea's voice rang from above. She stood on the balcony, her light brown hair cascading in curls, her green dress hugging her perfectly.
"How long have you been there?" she asked.
"Not long," Twyla replied, feigning calm.
The door slid open on its own.
Of course. She was probably watching the whole time. Twyla gritted her teeth, but stubborn pride pulled her inside.
The house's interior was even more stunning—warm earth tones, open spaces, elegance without coldness. She was busy admiring it when she nearly collided with a tall man.
"Hello. I'm Twyla. Andrea's neighbor."
He took a beat too long to answer, then flashed a smile that could stop traffic. If Calian was the dark-hearted villain, this man was the golden lead.
"I'm Carter."
She nodded and turned toward the living room. Then Calian's voice called out from behind.
"Carter. When did you arrive?"
His tone wasn't friendly. Twyla wasn't sure if she was imagining it. Carter merely chuckled.
"Andrea invited me. Said it's a celebration for you two. I guess now I'm allowed to be your friend again."
"You can find her upstairs. She's on the balcony."
"Then I'll go find her."
Carter's eyes met Twyla's before he left, and his smile lingered. She breathed again. Calian's stare remained heavy. She walked away.
Guests trickled in—at least twenty—but none engaged beyond polite greetings. She was restless, so she gravitated to the bar. The drink selection was impressive. She began taking requests, finding comfort in the rhythm. Eventually, people mistook her for the hired bartender. She didn't correct them. It was better than feeling invisible.
When things quieted down, she made her favorite drink, savoring it like an old song. Then a low chuckle pulled her from her reverie.
Carter sat at the bar, watching her.
"You really like that drink."
"I do. Want one?"
"Why are you playing bartender?"
"Better than being a misplaced apple among tomatoes."
He laughed.
"So, what'll it be, dear customer?"
"I'll have what you're having."
"It'll cost you."
He turned his pockets inside out, grinning like a kid.
She poured him a glass. He sipped, eyes lighting up.
"This is amazing."
They talked. He was funny, warm—and a lightweight. Two glasses in, his cheeks were flushed and his eyes half-lidded.
"Here. Drink water."
"You didn't answer me earlier. Can I visit your café tomorrow?"
"I did answer."
"You said yes?"
"The opposite."
"But why?!"
He looked like a sulking child.
"Drink the water and I'll tell you."
He obeyed, spilling some down his neck. His gaze burned into her, and she flinched.
He was dazzling, yes. But her heart wasn't his to claim.
Not yet.
"Please? Let me come. Just once. Please…"
He looked like an abandoned puppy now, his pleading eyes tugging at her last ounce of patience. She exhaled hard, pressing her lips together.
Before she could answer, three men strolled over to the minibar.
"What's going on here? Carter! You lightweight. Come on, let's get you to your room."
"No!" Carter whined. "She hasn't answered yet!"
Two of the guys hoisted him by the arms and dragged him off. The third lingered, watching her with an unsettling gaze.
She raised an eyebrow, already irritated. "What? Never seen a woman mix drinks before?"
He smirked. "I've seen plenty. Mostly in my apartment."
Disgusted, she scoffed and turned to leave—but his hand clamped around her wrist.
"Your shift's not over. Make me a drink."
She yanked her arm, glare sharp. "Make your own. I'm done."
He tightened his grip.
"What's happening here?" Andrea's voice cut in, sweet and casual.
The man didn't let go, but smiled over his shoulder. "Andrea. You sure know how to hire someone interesting. Should I fill out a customer satisfaction survey for you?"
Andrea tilted her head. "Is there a problem?"
Twyla's eyes widened. Andrea was asking him instead of her.
"There is," he said coolly. "Such incompetence is forgivable only if the bartender is easy on the eyes."
His slimy gaze crawled over her, and her stomach churned. She tore her wrist free with a forceful pull.
Andrea let out a soft laugh, brushing the moment aside. "Oh, don't be so serious. Let's all just enjoy the night."
Twyla stared at her, stunned at the two-faced sweetness. Anger roiled in her chest, but she bit it back. Guests were starting to watch.
She walked to the drawer near the door, retrieved a pen and paper, scribbled down her hourly rate and bank details, and marched over to Andrea.
"Please have the payment transferred by tomorrow," she said crisply, then turned and left.
At home, she blasted her favorite rock tracks through the speakers and scrubbed the floors like her anger could be washed away. When the doorbell rang, she flung it open to find Calian standing outside.
"I'm sorry," he said softly.
"I can't hear you! You need to speak up!"
"I said—I'm so sorry!"
She shut the door in his face, turned the music down, then opened it again with exaggerated cheer. "Oh, hey! I hope you're not here to apologize about tonight. That'd be kind of pathetic, don't you think?"
"Twyla… please. They're sorry for what happened."
She leaned out slightly, scanning the street. "Funny. I only see you."
"Come back, please. Just for a moment."
She stared at him for a long beat. When he tried to speak again, she cut him off.
"Calian. My whole life, I've had to fight for myself because no one else ever did. So please… don't make me do it again tonight."
He looked down, unable to respond. She gently closed the door, but its soft thud hit like a slammed one.
The morning sun pierced her eyes. She groaned, realizing she forgot to close the curtains the night before. Her phone read 1:00 p.m. She rolled over, thinking she'd ignore the world today—but then heard tapping on her window.
"You left your window open again? How many times have I warned you?!"
She smiled faintly. Those were the exact words he'd always said back when they lived together.
"Twyla? Can I come in?"
She nodded lazily, half-asleep—until she heard him actually enter through the window.
Her eyes flew open. He was already in the room, looking away awkwardly.
"Sorry—I'll go," he mumbled, hopping back out the window.
"Wait! What was that?!"
She turned and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—hair wild, wearing a thin white tank top with one strap fallen, barely clinging to modesty. She screamed into her pillow.
Half an hour later, he came through the door this time. She let him in under one condition—he had to cook. Like old times. He made his signature sandwiches, and though she usually preferred rice, his creations were the only exception she ever made.
"How are you feeling?" he asked as they sat.
"Are you asking about last night or this afternoon?" she replied, biting into her sandwich.
He nearly spit out his drink.
He deserved it.
"Twyla… what can I do to make things right?"
"Nothing."
"If you're this mad, I can't just—"
"I'm not mad."
"Then please… anything."
She sighed. "Last night didn't happen. Nothing to talk about."
And she meant it. Those people didn't matter. They weren't hers to accommodate or impress. They were his world, not hers. And she wasn't responsible for making them like her just because they liked him.
"I just want to make it up to you."
She studied him. If she couldn't accept the people around him, then maybe she didn't belong in his life. The thought made her chest tighten.
"Twyla?"
She realized tears were forming, so she abruptly grabbed his sandwich. He blinked, confused. She was just as surprised by her own move.
"You can make it up to me by giving me this."
"O…kay?"
His baffled face made her burst into laughter. His smile—warm, familiar—was the balm she didn't know she needed.
It was enough, at least for now.