Facing the past

The café hums with quiet conversation, the smell of roasted coffee beans and sweet pastries filling the air. Sunlight filters through the large, glass windows, casting golden streaks across the polished floor. Outside, the city buzzes with life—flying cars weaving between the towering skyscrapers, pedestrians navigating the crowded sidewalks below. But I barely notice any of it.

My fingers grip the ceramic coffee cup in front of me, the warmth grounding me as I brace myself for what's to come. For him.

I shouldn't have come.

I feel small, reduced to the version of myself that once hung onto every word James said, desperate for his approval, for the illusion of love he dangled before me like a cruel joke. It's infuriating, how his presence alone can drag me back into a place I fought so hard to escape. But this isn't about fear or weakness anymore.

This is about closure.