Chapter 7
The text came before sunrise.
Lena had just finished folding the laundry her mother left untouched for weeks. A pile of old cotton dresses and one torn bedsheet. She caught herself re-reading Sophia's message a second time, then a third, her thumb tracing the edge of the screen like it was a note from another life.
I'll be here tomorrow. At six. Same place. Same table.
I won't rush you. I'll just wait.
It sounded so… patient. As if Sophia knew how hard it was to be asked for nothing in a world that always took.
Lena stared at the words for a long time.
Then tucked her phone under the pillow and lay back on the mattress, listening to her mother's slow, even breaths across the room.
⸻
She didn't reply.
Not in the morning. Not in the afternoon. Not even when the shadows outside began to stretch thin and gray across the cracked walls.
She didn't reply because she wasn't sure what the right thing was.
What was she supposed to be to a woman like Sophia? A project? A distraction? A risk?
And what did Lena want?
She'd been asked that question before — by teachers, neighbors, distant aunts — but it had always been a performance. Say something small. Modest. A nurse. A good daughter. A girl who doesn't cause trouble.
But now, her answer felt heavier. It came from somewhere deeper than her tongue.
She wanted to be seen.
Not pitied. Not studied.
Seen.
⸻
It was already past five-thirty when Lena finally stood in front of the mirror.
She didn't have anything elegant to wear. No flawless skin, no effortless hair. Just a faded wool sweater, black jeans, and the sneakers she wore every shift. She stared at her reflection, nervous and plain and alive.
A part of her wanted to back out. She told herself, You owe her nothing.
But another voice whispered, Maybe for once, you owe yourself something.
She grabbed her coat.
⸻
It was five fifty-seven when she turned the corner toward the café.
She almost stopped walking when she saw Sophia through the window — seated at the same table near the back, coat folded beside her, hands wrapped around a paper cup like she needed something warm to hold on to.
Sophia wasn't looking at her phone.
She wasn't looking at the door either.
She was just… waiting.
Still. Quiet. The way people are when they mean what they say.
Lena took a breath and stepped inside.
⸻
The door chimed. Sophia looked up.
Their eyes met.
It was brief, but it stole the air from Lena's lungs.
Sophia stood slowly. "You came."
"I wasn't sure I would," Lena said honestly, walking toward the table.
"And yet—" Sophia pulled out the chair across from her, a softness in her gaze that caught Lena off-guard. "You're here."
Lena sat down. Her hands were cold, tucked between her knees under the table.
"I didn't know what to wear."
"I'm glad you didn't dress up," Sophia replied, smiling faintly. "You look like yourself."
"I don't even know what that means."
"Then maybe we figure it out together."
That startled Lena more than any compliment could have.
There was no agenda. No script.
Just two women sitting across from each other, with nothing between them but silence and the courage to let it stretch.
⸻
"I should say thank you," Lena murmured after a long pause. "For the bills. You didn't have to do that."
"I didn't," Sophia agreed. "But I wanted to. And I still don't want anything in return."
"That's the part I don't get."
Sophia leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the table. "Lena, I don't know how to explain this without sounding… complicated. But I've spent years surrounded by people who look perfect and feel nothing. When you speak, it's like I can finally breathe."
Lena stared at her.
Sophia didn't flinch under the weight of that truth.
"I'm not perfect either," Lena said quietly.
"I hope not."
They both smiled, uncertain but honest.
It was new. Awkward. Messy.
But it was real.
⸻
They talked for an hour. Then two.
About nothing and everything. About childhood memories. About loneliness. About the color of the sky when you're too tired to look up.
When they finally stood to leave, neither said see you tomorrow.
But neither of them needed to.