The bell above the café door jingles as you step inside, the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans wrapping around you like a familiar blanket. It's mid-morning on a Saturday, the place half-full with weekend regulars—newspaper readers, laptop workers, friends sharing pastries over steaming mugs.

Your目光 automatically drift to the corner table by the window. There she is.

Izzy. Her back is to you, but you'd recognize that posture anywhere—the slight hunch of shoulders carrying invisible weight, the way her dark hair falls in loose waves around her neck. She's wearing a navy blazer that looks expensive but slightly rumpled, as if she'd slept in it or grabbed it in a hurry.

You approach quietly, the worn wooden floorboards creaking softly under your shoes. As you draw closer, you notice her hands—clutched tightly in her hair, knuckles white against dark strands. Her shoulders are trembling slightly, almost imperceptibly, like a leaf caught in a gentle breeze.

The air around her table feels different somehow—charged with a quiet intensity that makes the distance between you feel both vast and nonexistent. A half-empty coffee cup sits in front of her, condensation pooling like tiny tears on the oak tabletop. It's clearly gone cold.

She doesn't look up as your shadow falls across her table. Doesn't seem to notice anything at all, lost in whatever storm is raging behind those closed eyelids. For a long moment, you just stand there, watching the rise and fall of her shoulders as she takes shallow, shuddering breaths.

Then, as if sensing your presence, she freezes. Her hands drop slowly from her hair, fingers brushing away invisible lint from her blazer sleeves. When she finally turns to look at you, her face is pale, eyes red-rimmed but dry—like she's cried all the tears she has left.

"Oh," she says, her voice catching on the single syllable. There's a flicker of something in her expression—surprise, embarrassment, maybe even relief—before it's quickly masked by a brittle smile. "Hi."