Unwritten Lines

Lana told herself she wouldn't go back today.

She had told herself the same thing yesterday. And the day before that.

Yet here she was, standing in the doorway of Café Amour, heart tapping a rhythm she refused to name.

The café was the same as always—warm, rich with the scent of espresso and something caramelized, a quiet hum of conversations blending with the soft music overhead. But for her, it wasn't the same anymore. The moment she had written that first letter, something had changed.

She wasn't sure what she was expecting now. Another reply? Nothing at all? A part of her wondered if this had been a mistake—if she was getting attached to a stranger through ink and paper.

She swallowed and took a step inside.

"Do I even want to look?" she muttered under her breath.

"Look at what?"

Lana jumped, nearly dropping her bag as a familiar voice slid into her space.

Noa.

Of course.

Her best friend smirked, standing beside her with a cup of something iced in hand, her dark eyes twinkling with mischief.

"What are you doing here?" Lana pressed a hand to her chest, willing her heartbeat to slow.

"You're not the only one who likes overpriced coffee," Noa said easily, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "But also—you've been obsessed with this place lately. And don't think I haven't noticed you always staring at the same bookshelf."

Lana stiffened. "I'm not obsessed—"

"Lana." Noa tilted her head. "Is it a guy?"

The question hit harder than it should have.

"No," Lana said quickly.

Not in the way Noa meant. Not in the way she should be feeling.

And yet—

Her gaze flickered to the bookshelf, to the book that waited.

It wasn't a guy. Not really. It was words. Letters. The feeling of being seen.

"Then why are you looking at that shelf like it holds the meaning of life?"

Lana groaned. "You're annoying."

"And you're hiding something."

Lana didn't answer. Instead, she walked over to the bookshelf, fingers trailing along the spines until she found their book. The weight of it was familiar now, like something meant to be in her hands.

She flipped it open, pulse steady but expectant.

The reply was there.

"I think you needed someone to answer, too."

A breath left her lips, something fragile and unspoken pressing against her ribs.

He understood.

Somehow, without even knowing her, he understood.

"Okay, what is that?"

Lana startled, snapping the book shut as Noa peered over her shoulder.

"Nothing," she said too quickly.

Noa raised an eyebrow. "That didn't look like nothing. That looked like a secret."

"It's—" Lana hesitated. "It's just something I found."

Noa narrowed her eyes. Then, to Lana's horror, she reached out and grabbed the book from her hands.

"Noa!"

But it was too late. Noa flipped it open, scanning the pages.

Lana braced herself for teasing, for some kind of smug remark—but when Noa finally spoke, her voice was softer.

"This is… kind of beautiful," she murmured, eyes tracing the handwriting. "Who is this?"

Lana exhaled slowly. "I don't know."

Noa's gaze snapped up. "What?"

"I don't know who he is," Lana admitted. "We've never met. We just… write."

Noa stared at her. Then, slowly, a grin spread across her face.

"Oh, this is so much better than what I was expecting."

Lana groaned. "Please don't make this a thing."

"Oh, it's definitely a thing." Noa smirked. "Secret letters? A mystery guy? Lana, this is romantic."

"It's not."

"You're literally blushing."

Lana pressed her lips together. "I hate you."

Noa laughed, handing the book back. "Sure, sure."

Lana tried to ignore her as she pulled out a pen.

She hesitated for only a moment before writing:

"Maybe I did."

She stared at the words, feeling them settle.

Then, closing the book, she placed it back on the shelf—right where it belonged.

---

Meanwhile, on the other side of Aurivelle, Oryn sat in his apartment, staring at a blank page.

He hadn't written a single thing in three days.

Not for work. Not for himself.

Not even for her.

The letters had been the only thing keeping his mind from unraveling. The only thing that felt real.

But tonight, even that wasn't enough.

"Still nothing?"

The voice was familiar, laced with amusement and something knowing.

Oryn sighed, rubbing his temple. "Not now, Romy."

Romy, perched on his couch, raised an eyebrow. "That bad, huh?"

He didn't answer.

She tilted her head, watching him. "You know, if you told me what's actually going on, I might be able to help."

Oryn huffed a laugh. "Doubtful."

"Try me."

He ran a hand through his hair. "It's just… I've been writing to someone."

Romy blinked. "Like, professionally?"

"No." His throat felt tight. "Like, personally."

Something flickered in her expression.

"A girl?"

He hesitated.

Romy nodded slowly. "Okay. And?"

"And I don't know her," he admitted. "Not really."

Romy studied him for a long moment. Then, instead of teasing, she just leaned back against the couch.

"Well," she said. "That's new."

Oryn exhaled. "Yeah."

For the first time in a long time, something felt new.

And he wasn't sure what scared him more—the not knowing.

Or how much he wanted to.