Things Left Unsaid

"Some connections don't need loud declarations. They grow in glances, in pauses, in the space between words."

Saturday mornings in Havenbrook were quieter than usual.

Most of the town seemed to sleep in. The coffee shop across from Yuna's apartment didn't open until ten. Students shuffled slowly to the grocery store in sweats, yawning through lists written half-asleep. The chill in the air was just sharp enough to wake you, but gentle enough to make you want to stay under a blanket.

Yuna, as always, walked.

Not because she had anywhere urgent to be — but because walking helped her breathe. The streets were lined with orange trees, and every few steps, a crisp leaf would fall in slow motion beside her, like the town was shedding its skin gently.

By now, her feet didn't need directions.

They led her to Mocha Moon before she could convince herself to go anywhere else.

The café was nearly empty. Only two customers sat by the window, both immersed in sketchpads and headphones. A candle flickered softly at the counter, and jazz played low, brushing the edges of the room like a whisper.

Eli was behind the counter, as always — in a dark green sweater, hair a little messy, like he hadn't had time to smooth it down. His sleeves were already pushed up. His hands were working on a pour-over, calm and precise.

Yuna stepped inside just as the bell chimed.

His head turned before the door even shut.

"Morning," he said softly.

"Hi." Her voice came out quieter than usual.

He tilted his head, studying her. "You okay?"

She shrugged out of her scarf and gave a small nod. "Didn't sleep much."

His eyes didn't pry. "Same."

"Busy?"

He leaned one hand on the counter. "My brain won't shut up sometimes. It likes to keep me awake just to remind me of things I already regret."

Yuna blinked.

Then gave a small, surprised laugh. "That's… honest."

He looked amused. "I don't do polite small talk. I'm bad at it."

"I've noticed."

Eli motioned to the side counter. "Wanna try making your own drink today?"

She raised a brow. "Is that allowed?"

"I'm the owner. Everything's allowed."

She hesitated — then stepped forward, curious. "Okay. Teach me."

Eli stood beside her behind the counter, guiding her step by step through making a lavender oat latte. His voice was calm, quiet, explaining the pressure of the steam wand, the right color for the espresso pull.

"You don't measure anything," she said, glancing at his movements.

"I measure by instinct."

"Sounds reckless."

"Sounds like art."

She chuckled.

He took the milk pitcher from her hand and gently corrected her grip, his fingers brushing hers.

She froze for a second.

So did he.

Their eyes met briefly — just a glance — but something passed between them. Not heat. Not tension. Just… awareness.

Then he stepped back.

"Try again," he said, voice steady.

She did. And this time, the foam looked decent.

"Not bad," he said, inspecting it. "Better than my first try."

"Were you a mess?"

"A total disaster."

She smiled. "Glad to know you're human."

Eli handed her the finished drink in a ceramic mug. "Here. Your masterpiece."

She took a sip and nodded. "Okay, that's actually good."

He leaned on the counter, watching her. "You look more awake now."

"I think it's the lavender."

"No," he said, his voice soft. "I think it's the feeling of doing something for yourself."

Yuna looked at him, the smile fading into something gentler.

"You always say things like that," she said.

"Like what?"

"Like you're quoting something, but you're not."

Eli smiled faintly. "Maybe I am. Or maybe I just think too much."

Yuna took another sip, then said, "You should write. You speak like someone who writes."

"I used to. Songs. Before."

"Before what?"

He didn't answer immediately.

Then, "Before I stopped thinking music could fix things."

The quiet that followed wasn't heavy. It was understanding.

Yuna whispered, "I used to write poems. But I haven't in a long time."

Eli didn't ask why.

He just nodded. "Then I guess we're both trying to remember who we were."

They sat at the far table after that — two mugs between them, and the soft buzz of conversation in the background.

For the first time, they talked like people who weren't afraid to be seen.

Not about love. Not about heartbreak.

But about favorite books. About dreams they forgot they had. About how Havenbrook felt like the kind of place you didn't expect to fall in love with — and yet, it slowly wrapped itself around you.

"I used to think I wanted a life in the city," Yuna said, brushing her fingers along the edge of the table. "Fast pace. Bright lights. Big everything. I chased it hard."

"And?"

"And it drained me."

Eli tilted his head. "So you ran?"

"I broke," she said simply.

Eli didn't flinch.

"Breaking's not always bad," he said. "Sometimes it's how you find the pieces worth saving."

She looked at him for a long moment.

"You talk like someone who's broken too."

He didn't look away. "I am."

That honesty — unfiltered, quiet — made something in her chest soften.

Later that afternoon, after they'd gone back to their routines — she to her journal, he to cleaning the espresso machine — Mina showed up.

She bounced in, hair in a high ponytail, coat unzipped, carrying two shopping bags and a mission to gossip.

"Oh, look at you two," she teased, dropping into the seat across from Yuna. "Cafe couple in the making."

Yuna groaned. "Mina…"

"I'm just saying," Mina sing-songed, looking between them, "the vibes are immaculate."

Eli glanced over from the bar, visibly amused.

"Ignore her," Yuna muttered.

Mina leaned closer, whispering loudly, "He's so soft for you. I saw it."

"I'm going to throw this drink at you."

"You won't. You like it too much."

Yuna sighed but couldn't hide her smile.

When she got home that evening, Yuna opened her journal.

And this time, she didn't hesitate.

She wrote about learning to steam milk. About the warmth of ceramic mugs. About voices that didn't fill silence just to kill it.

And then she wrote a single line — tucked near the bottom of the page like a secret:

"I don't know if I'm falling. But I feel myself leaning."