The Name We Don't Say
Oryn hadn't planned to return so soon.
He had told himself he would wait. That patience would make this feel less like a compulsion and more like a curiosity. But patience had never been his virtue, and the moment he stepped into Café Amour, he knew he needed to know if she had answered.
The café smelled of freshly ground espresso and something sweet—vanilla, maybe. Conversations blurred into a quiet hum, the kind that softened the edges of the world, turning the space into its own little universe.
And yet, Oryn only had eyes for one thing.
The book.
His fingers trailed along the spines on the shelf, feeling the familiar grain of worn covers, his pulse steady but expectant. He found it almost too easily. Slipped it free, thumbed through the pages, scanning the margins.
And then—
A single letter.
"L."
Just that.
The shape of it was delicate, as though she had hesitated before writing it, pressing her pen just a little harder than necessary, leaving the ink dark and deep in the paper.
Oryn exhaled, his lips parting slightly.
Not a full name. Not quite enough to unravel the mystery.
But enough to keep going.
The world around him seemed to slow, like the moment had taken its own breath. He traced the letter absently, feeling the weight of its presence.
"L."
Was it short for something? Lara? Lana? Lillian? Something else entirely?
A name was such a small thing, yet it felt monumental.
He had been writing for years, weaving words into something meaningful, throwing them into the void, hoping they found a home. But no one had ever answered like this.
Why had she?
His fingers curled around the pen in his pocket, the weight of it grounding him. He hesitated only a moment before pressing it to the page.
"Why did you answer?"
That was what mattered. Not her name. Not yet.
But the why.
Because this felt like something more than coincidence. Something heavier, more delicate.
Something that could slip through his fingers if he wasn't careful.
---
Lana hadn't expected the weight of her own reply to settle in her chest the way it did.
She had told herself it didn't mean anything—just a silly whim, a fleeting moment. But the second she had written that single letter, it was as if something had cracked open inside her, letting in air where she didn't know she had been holding her breath.
A name was a powerful thing. It carried stories, secrets, pieces of who someone was.
And now, he had a sliver of hers.
For days, she had convinced herself she wouldn't go back. That this was foolish, that she was getting caught up in something that didn't belong to reality. But the thought of the book—of whether or not he had answered—pressed against her mind in quiet moments, like a song she couldn't forget.
And so, one evening, she found herself back at Café Amour.
She barely hesitated this time.
Her hands found the book like it was an extension of herself, her heart tapping against her ribs as she flipped through the pages.
And then she saw it.
"Why did you answer?"
The words felt like a question meant for more than the page.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the edges of the book, breath unsteady.
Why had she?
Because she had understood something unspoken in his words.
Because when she had read them, she had felt seen.
Because maybe he had needed someone to answer.
And maybe—just maybe—so had she.
Her pen trembled slightly as she pressed it to the paper. She hesitated, exhaling softly, before letting the words spill from her fingertips.
"Because I think you needed someone to."
There.
The ink settled, final and unchangeable.
Something in her chest felt lighter, yet more fragile than before.
She closed the book, sliding it back into place, fingers lingering on the spine.
And for the first time, she turned toward the café, scanning the faces lost in their own stories.
And she wondered—
Was he here?
Waiting.
Watching.
Looking for her the same way she was starting to look for him.