Unread
She walks into the coffee shop like she used to. Hair tied in a lazy bun. Phone in one hand, tote bag slipping off the other shoulder. Nothing dramatic. Nothing cinematic. But I feel the old weight in my chest again.
I’m already seated. Laptop open, pretending to write something serious. But all I’ve typed is her name, backspaced eight times.
She doesn’t see me. Or maybe she does and chooses not to.
She orders her usual—filter coffee, no sugar. Even now, even in this winter, she doesn’t switch to cappuccinos or try the seasonal menu like everyone else.
She finds a seat two tables away. Pulls out her Kindle. Crosses one leg over the other. The same blue sneakers. She always hated boots, said they made her feel like she was trying too hard.
I shouldn’t be here. I know that. This city’s big enough to avoid someone if you really want to. But somehow, we keep ending up in the same places. Or maybe I never really left the places she once brought me into.
Later that night, I post a story.
Not on my main account. On the one I never told her about. The one where I write things that feel too sharp for daylight.
Some people read you like a stranger's diary. Quietly. Without marking the page. Without ever saying: I was here.
The comments roll in.
“Been there.”
“This line killed me.”
“How do you always know what I’m feeling?”
But not her. Never her.
Still, I know she’s seen it. I know because the view count always spikes after I post something like this. Because she’s still curious. Just not enough.
We finally speak two weeks later.
Not because she wants to. But because we bump into each other again—outside a bookstore this time. The kind that sells secondhand copies with highlighter marks from people who once believed in the same lines we now scroll past.
She says, “Hey,” like it’s nothing.
I nod. “Long time.”
She says, “You still write?”
I smile. “You still read?”
There’s a pause.
She looks away. “Sometimes.”
That’s all we say.
No accusations. No apologies. No what happened or why did you stop calling. Just a quiet acknowledgement of the wreckage we both walked out of. Some people have closure. Others just learn to walk around the crater.
That night, I write again.
Whenever I write about you, everyone understands. Except you.
Because you never read what I meant.
You only read what you could handle.
I don’t post it.
Some silences deserve to stay that way.