Confessions Over Cappuccinos

The next afternoon, Oliver Grey found himself outside The Crescent Mall's glass-fronted entrance, heart fluttering with more than just nerves. Clive Durham was waiting, hands in the pockets of his dark denim jacket, that easy smile in place just as yesterday. Oliver approached, adjusting the straps of his battered backpack.

"Hey," Clive greeted, stepping forward. His voice was a steady anchor in

Oliver's restless sea of thoughts. "Ready?" He asked with a warm voice.

Oliver nodded, sliding his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. "Yeah." He uttered, without any more diffidence; as he had genuinely looked forward to spending more time with Clive.

They wandered past storefronts scented with new leather and polished wood. Clive paused before a small café called Bean & Quill, its cozy interior visible through large windows. Outside, a chalkboard announced "Summer Special: Vanilla Bean Cold Brew."

They claimed a high-top table near the back, where afternoon light filtered through leafy fronds of an indoor ficus. Clive ordered two vanilla cold brews. Oliver was surprised at the choice, it was sunlight poured over ice instead of the velvet darkness he was used to; however, he didn't seem to mind much once he tasted the gentle sweetness.

For a long moment, they sat in companionable silence. Oliver traced the condensation on his cup, summoning words as if dredging them from a distant well. Finally, Clive broke the hush.

"You seem… quieter than usual today. Everything all right?"

Oliver's gaze flickered upward. Clive's concern was genuine, patient. No judgmental undertone could be found there, despite Oliver's cynicism; it was just presence. With a slow exhale, Oliver lifted his eyes to Clive's.

"It's… my family," Oliver began, voice low. "Not much of one."

Clive tilted his head, listening attentively. That empathy model from his psych elective popped into his mind—O.L.S.E.R., or something like that: Observe, Listen without judging, Suspend judgment, Empathize, Respond. He'd resolved to follow it today. Not merely for the sake of being decent, but because he genuinely wanted to understand Oliver.

Oliver stared into his drink, watching the ice spin in slow circles. "My parents split when I was sixteen. They used to fight constantly, before the divorce and even more after. Neither of them really checked in on me." He paused, thumb tracing the rim of his glass. "My brother's twelve now. He's eight years younger, but he's always been the one throwing his weight around. Slamming doors on my hand, shoving me into walls. He's always been bigger. There's not much I can do."

Clive shifted forward. "That sounds awful," he said softly.

Oliver shrugged, gaze dropping again. "It's just… my home's not a home. It's a battleground."

Clive nodded, letting the silence fill the space between them. He noticed the tremor in Oliver's voice, stayed quiet, and didn't offer any quick fixes. He reached out and brushed Oliver's hand with a light touch, offering quiet reassurance. Oliver swallowed, surprised by the warmth of Clive's hand but not finding it unwelcome. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them wide again.

Because Clive had listened so patiently and reached out without judgment, Oliver felt safe enough to keep talking. "It only got worse in high school," he said. "Kids started calling me skeleton and freak. They'd shove me in the hallways and laugh when I tripped. I even thought about ending it all. I tried swallowing pills once." His voice cracked. "I woke up in the hospital and no one came to see me."

Clive's chest tightened. He squeezed Oliver's hand. "I'm so sorry you went through that."

Oliver pulled his hand back, his heart pounding at the thought of letting someone else in. He'd never let his guard down like this; never shown anyone the cracks he kept hidden. Yet here he was, voice trembling, having just vocalised a confession he thought he'd take to his grave.

He looked up at Clive, who had remained unflinched; the characteristic easy smile and calm gaze still present. "Why do you care?" The question was more bewildered than accusatory.

Clive drew in a slow breath, picturing the isolation Oliver had carried with him for years. "Because you matter," he said softly. "Your thoughts and your feelings matter. Nobody should have to face those things on their own."

Oliver's lips trembled. He pressed both hands around his cup, as if seeking warmth. "I'm not used to someone… caring."

Clive offered a small, gentle smile. "I'm here now, so you might as well get used to it."

They ordered a slice of berry cheesecake to share, and Clive steered the conversation towards Oliver's favourite authors and the quirkiest titles he'd come across at the campus bookstore where he worked. Oliver's laughter was tentative at first, then grew more genuine as each question seemed to lower his guard.

In the warm glow of the café light, Clive noticed Oliver's shoulders relax for the first time that evening. He sipped his coffee, watching the tension leave Oliver's face like mist under the morning sun.

They spent the next hour moving between heartfelt confessions and easy banter. Clive teased Oliver about his obsession with economic theory while Oliver playfully mocked Clive's love of fantasy novels. Whenever Oliver's gaze clouded with a sudden flash of pain, Clive would pause, lean in, soften his voice, and respond with quiet understanding.

By the time they left Bean & Quill, the sun had dipped low, painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and gold. They strolled the mall's winding corridors, occasionally stopping to admire a display window or share earbuds playing a favourite song.

At a kiosk selling pressed flowers in glass frames, Oliver paused. He examined a single forget-me-not encased in resin. Clive watched him, curiosity and something like hope shining in his eyes.

"These are… beautiful," Oliver said. He chose one with tiny lavender petals.

Clive hastened to pay for it and tucked it gently into Oliver's bag. "For you", he said.

Oliver felt his throat tighten as he met Clive's eyes. His gratitude was tentative at first, but beneath it lay something deeper, maybe trust or even the first flickers of affection.

As they stepped out into the cooling evening air, Clive draped his jacket over Oliver's shoulders. Oliver paused, surprised, then relaxed into the warmth. "Thanks," he murmured.

Clive hailed a cab and helped Oliver inside. Before the taxi pulled away, Clive waved with a gentle smile. "Anytime", he called.

And for the first time in years, Oliver didn't feel like he was alone. The implied promise of seeing each other again gleamed between them, bright and fragile as that little pressed flower; which seemed like an emblem of the memories they would build together.