Chapter 2 - Catherine

The bodega's neon sign flickers as I step inside, its hum blending with the faint melody of an old Spanish ballad playing from a battered radio. The place is never empty, not even this late. People like me, like him, drift in and out—creatures of habit clinging to small rituals that make the night feel less hollow.

I don't need anything, not really. But I still find myself here.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead as I move toward the counter, already knowing what I'll grab—a bottle of water, a snack I'll barely eat, and, for some reason, mints. I don't remember when that started. Just another habit now.

Luis barely looks up as I set my things down. He knows me by now. Same time, same order. I tap my fingers idly against the counter as I pull out my phone, scrolling through old notifications without really reading them. It's not that I'm avoiding anything.

It's just easier this way.

Then the bell jingles.

And I already know.

I keep my eyes on my screen, but internally, I'm already bracing myself. Because in exactly five seconds—

"Mamma mia, come to papi, darling."

I bite the inside of my cheek.

Of all the people in this city, why does it have to be him?

I peek up just in time to see a poor guy in the chip aisle turn, utterly horrified. At least I'm not suffering alone.

Pierre—yes, I unfortunately know his name—practically glides over to the counter, setting his iced coffee down like it's a priceless artifact. I swear, if I have to witness this man's love affair with caffeine one more time—

"You again," I say, arching a brow.

He smirks like he's been waiting for this. "You say that like I'm the one following you."

Oh, please.

I swipe my card with a little more force than necessary. "Maybe you are."

Luis, ever the neutral party, bags my things without looking up. "Both of you are. Same time, same stuff. Like clockwork."

Great. Even Luis thinks we're some kind of tragic duo.

"I guess that makes us predictable," I say, mostly to myself.

Pierre taps his coffee against the counter like he's considering something deeply philosophical. "Or consistent."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes and instead grab my bag. No more of this nonsense. I need to go home. I need peace.

But then, for some reason, I don't leave.

I lean against the wall outside, opening my mints, letting the night air settle around me. It's not like I have anywhere else to be.

The door swings open behind me, and there it is—that pause.

Oh no.

I already know what's coming.

"You staring, or do you just like standing in doorways?" I ask without looking up.

He chuckles, stepping closer. "Neither. Just wondering why you stick around if you're always in such a hurry."

I pop a mint into my mouth, glancing at him. "Maybe I'm not in a hurry."

He watches me for a second before taking a slow sip of his coffee. The city stretches behind us, distant sirens and passing cars filling the silence.

Maybe I'll ask him why he always comes here so late.

Or maybe I'll just continue suffering in silence.

For now, it's enough that we're both here.