Kaius Oziel
"Love!"
I called out, my voice brighter than I actually felt, as soon as I saw him sitting at our favorite corner table inside our go-to café. Saturday mornings always looked the same here, sunlight streaming through the wide windows, bouncing off polished tables, painting shifting gold on the tiled floor. It was the same spot, the same time, the same ritual we'd built together. In a noisy world, this café has become our little island of peace.
When we first started this routine, I remember thinking it was such a cheesy idea. Meeting at the café every Saturday, sitting by the window, talking about our week like some couple out of a drama. It was Julian's suggestion, and I'd laughed, calling it corny. But as the weeks turned into months, and now years, it grew on me. No matter how brutal work got, no matter how overwhelmed or tired I felt, there was something comforting in knowing that every Saturday morning, I'd find him here, waiting. That thought alone had pulled me through more bad days than I could count.
"Love, you took long enough!" Julian teased the moment I reached the table, a twinkle in his eyes that never failed to make my heart beat faster. I wrapped him in a tight hug, breathing in the familiar woody scent of his cologne mixed with coffee and sugar.
"Look at you, so dashing in that outfit…" he added, grinning up at me.
I pouted, cheeks puffing out almost on instinct. "I thought you wouldn't notice," I said, trying to sound annoyed, though we both knew I wanted him to. Julian just laughed and reached up to pinch my cheeks. "Of course I noticed. I always notice you."
Really, huh? The words echoed in my mind, lingering longer than they should have.
We slid into our own seats facing each other, that quiet familiarity wrapping around us like a blanket. The café buzzed with the usual morning sounds as I looked around. Clinking cups, the rhythmic hiss of the espresso machine, and low conversations blending into a soft backdrop. From the outside, we probably looked perfect: two people laughing by the window, lost in their own world. For a few minutes, I let myself believe it.
"The usual?" Julian asked, raising an eyebrow at me.
"Of course," I answered with a small smile, the automatic response slipping out before I could think.
As we waited for our order, our conversation wandered through familiar ground. We revisited stories from our college days, poked fun at each other over who forgot more important dates, complained lightly about our workloads, and made loose plans for the rest of the day. Every so often, his hand would brush mine, or his knee would bump against my leg, and those tiny touches felt like anchors, reminders that, whatever else was happening, I was still his.
After a while, our usuals arrived. The air around us filled with the sweet scent of chocolate mousse cake and the rich aroma of freshly brewed latte. I watched as Julian immediately reached out, sliding the plate and cup in front of me with that same easy, practiced gesture he always used.
"Your favorite," he said, smiling, while mine shattered.
I hesitated. For a second, the world around me seemed to blur.
"Love?" Julian asked quietly, noticing the pause. "Is there something wrong?"
I tried to swallow the lump forming in my throat. I forced my lips into a small, unsure smile and repeated, almost under my breath, "Chocolate mousse cake and a latte…" My eyes dropped to the table, tracing the grain in the wood. Inside my head, the words finished themselves. I always ordered strawberry cake and a fruit shake because I hate chocolate and coffee. When will you remember, Juls?
A flicker of concern passed through his eyes, there and gone in a second. Maybe he was about to ask, maybe he wasn't. I'll never know, because I beat him to it, offering another smile, this one steadier, pretending everything was fine. I didn't want to see his confusion turn into guilt. I didn't want to be the reason our Saturday morning felt heavy.
He squeezed my hand across the table, his own smile warm and bright, while something in my chest ached. This was the only day in the week we could truly be together, the one time carved out of our busy lives just for us. I'd been counting down to it since Monday. How could I ruin it over something as small as cake and coffee?
But was it really small?
I took a bite. The taste was as bitter as I remembered, even with all the sugar mixed in. It clung to my tongue, thick and wrong, like the feeling in my chest. Every week, the same order. Every week, the same mistake. Some Saturdays I would volunteer to order for us, just for him to see that I want strawberries not chocolates, I want fruitshakes not coffees. I make sure to lowkey tell him. But it had been years, maybe more, and still he didn't remember what I like and what I hate.
Was it just forgetfulness? Or was it something deeper… some quiet truth I was afraid to name?
Outside, laughter rose from a nearby table, overlapping with the clatter of spoons and forks and the faint sound of a car horn from the street. Inside, I took another small, painful bite, washing it down with a sip of latte that made my throat tighten. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to say, "Love, this isn't my favorite. You just think it is. You're remembering a version of me that never said no."
But the words stayed stuck in my chest, heavy and unspoken.
Instead, I watched him. The way his eyes shone when he talked about his week, the way his hands moved when he got excited telling a story, the way he laughed at his own jokes before I even had the chance to react. The way he leaned closer, brushing a crumb away from my lip like it was the most natural thing in the world.
In those moments, warmth pushed gently against my sorrow. Love, I reminded myself, wasn't about perfection. People forgot things. People made mistakes. Maybe expecting him to remember every little preference was unfair. Maybe I was being too sensitive, too needy. Love is forgiveness in the mundane, I told myself. Love is choosing the brighter moments, even when shadows are there too. Or so I thought. Or so I believed.
I glanced down at the cake again, barely touched, feeling the weight of everything I wasn't saying pressing against my ribs. How many times had I stayed quiet like this? How many times have I told myself, next time I'll bring it up, next time I'll tell him what I really feel?
He laughed at something he'd just said and nudged my shoulder, drawing my attention back. "Hey, are you even listening?" he teased, eyes crinkling at the corners.
"I am," I answered softly, looking back at him. And I was. I always was. Maybe that was the problem. I listened, I watched, I memorized every little thing about him, his favorite drinks, the songs he hummed absentmindedly, the stories he'd told me so many times I could recite them myself. I'd built an entire world around him.
But in that small, crowded corner of the café, with my cold coffee and unwanted cake, I couldn't shake the fear that he had stopped learning mine, long ago. I let out a quiet breath and forced another smile, letting his laughter wash over me like sunlight I didn't quite feel on my skin. I loved him. I really did. Enough to swallow the bitterness and pretend it was sweet. Enough to tell myself that forgetting my favorite cake didn't mean he was forgetting me.
Yet beneath all that love, a question lingered, soft but relentless:
How long could I keep swallowing the bitterness?
How long could a paradise stay beautiful when, piece by piece, it started to feel like a prison I had built with my own silence?