The café hummed softly with chatter and clinking dishes — the kind of late-autumn afternoon that blurred softly at the edges, like a painting you weren't quite meant to touch.
Ronell sat at the far side of the table, her elbow resting near a glass of untouched iced tea, condensation trailing down its sides. A half-eaten sandwich lay on her plate, the crusts still neat, as though left behind with intent.
Her friends laughed about something — someone's awkward confession in class, or maybe a group project gone wrong. She smiled when expected. Nodded at the right beats. But the sound barely brushed her.
Her thoughts were elsewhere.
Moore.
Lately, he'd been... fading. Not away from her physically — they still passed in the hallways, still met at home. But something had shifted. The way he looked at her, if he looked at all. Like a fog had moved in behind his eyes. Like she was slipping through his fingers, and he wasn't reaching anymore.
Why?
She thought they'd found their rhythm. She'd reassured him — that he didn't hold her back, that he wasn't a weight she bore, but something... someone that grounded her.
So why now?
"Hey, Ronell," one of the girls said, leaning over with a teasing grin. "You've barely touched your sandwich. That café crush of yours got you nervous?"
The others giggled, eyes sliding briefly toward the guy across from her — the one who always seemed to show up in the same places lately. The one who made excuses to talk to her, who always lingered just a bit longer than the rest.
She didn't answer. Just gave a sheepish smile and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"I'm just not very hungry," she said softly, pushing the plate gently toward the center. "You guys can have it if you want."
"Everything okay?" another friend asked. "You've been kinda quiet."
"I just need some air," she murmured, already sliding from her seat.
---
The air outside was crisp, clean — like the café's warmth had dulled her senses, and only now were they returning. She leaned against the railing just beside the door, letting the late breeze brush past her.
Autumn leaves skipped across the sidewalk like they were in on a secret she wasn't.
"Ronell?"
She turned.
It was him — the boy from the table. The one with kind eyes, and careful words.
He stood there, hands in his pockets, looking as unsure as she felt.
"You okay?" he asked. "You seemed... I don't know. Far away in there."
She hesitated.
Part of her wanted to let him in — just a little. He hadn't done anything wrong. And yet... something about his gaze made her feel like a cornered bird. Not from fear. Just... expectation.
She didn't want to hurt him. But she didn't want to lie either.
"I'm fine," she said with a practiced smile. "Really. I just needed some air."
He nodded slowly, not convinced. The silence stretched between them, long and thin.
"You know," he added, almost gently, "you don't have to carry everything alone."
She looked down, her voice quieter now.
"I'm not carrying anything."
"Then why do you look so tired all the time?"
That made her pause. But instead of answering, she bowed her head slightly, as if in apology.
"I should go," she said. "Thanks for checking on me."
And just like that, she turned and walked away.
She didn't see the look that crossed his face — the quiet disappointment, the way he glanced back toward the café like he'd lost something without knowing what.
But she felt the ache in her chest settle deeper.
Because the truth was — she wasn't sure what she wanted anymore.
Not from him.
Not from Moore.
Not even from herself.
---
The house was quiet when Ronell stepped through the door, the kind of stillness that only happened when everyone else was gone or resting.
She slipped her shoes off gently, the soft click of them against the entryway floor sounding too loud in the hush. The scent of something sweet lingered faintly in the air—cinnamon, maybe. She followed it toward the living room, where warm light pooled across the carpet.
Her mother was there, curled up on the couch with a blanket over her legs, a half-finished cup of tea resting on the coffee table.
"Back early?" she asked with a small smile, not looking up from the book in her lap.
Ronell nodded, walking in and settling into the armchair across from her. She pulled her knees up and rested her cheek on them, like she used to when she was little.
Her mother closed the book, setting it aside.
"Your father went out to run errands," she said absently, then glanced toward the window. "And... Moore's not with you?"
Ronell hesitated, then shook her head.
Her mother watched her more closely now, tilting her head. "Everything okay?"
"I don't know," Ronell murmured. "It just feels like... lately, he's drifting."
Her mother's gaze softened.
"You've always been close," she said gently. "Closer than most siblings I've ever seen."
Ronell gave a faint, one-shouldered shrug. "Maybe that's the problem. Maybe I leaned too hard on him. Or maybe he leaned too hard on me."
There was a pause — not uncomfortable, just thoughtful.
"I think," her mother said slowly, "families are made up of people figuring things out at their own pace. And sometimes we get it wrong. Sometimes we get tired."
She smiled softly, folding her hands over the blanket. "But love doesn't vanish just because it feels different for a while."
Ronell looked away, her voice quieter now.
"Do you think he feels like he doesn't belong?"
Her mother's eyes grew still, thoughtful.
"I think Moore has been trying to find his place for a long time," she said honestly. "And maybe we haven't made it easy. Not intentionally—but..."
She trailed off, then sighed, her expression dimming just slightly.
"I see the way your father is with him. I've tried to bridge it, but... some distances are stubborn."
Ronell didn't answer. The silence between them stretched, soft and reflective.
Then: "Do you ever regret bringing him in?"
The question surprised even her. Her mother blinked, and then—without hesitation—shook her head.
"Never," she said. "Not for a second."
Ronell nodded slowly, eyes still downcast.
Her mother reached over, placing her hand gently on Ronell's.
"I know it's hard. Loving someone who's still learning to let themselves be loved."
For a moment, nothing more needed to be said.
Outside, a breeze stirred the wind chimes by the door. Somewhere in the house, the pipes creaked gently, and the scent of cinnamon lingered.
Ronell exhaled, her voice almost a whisper:
"I just want him to feel like he belongs."
Her mother gave her hand a light squeeze.
"He will. Because you never let him forget it."
---
The door creaked softly as Moore stepped into his room, the summer night air still clinging faintly to his clothes.
He stopped in the doorway.
Ronell was already there—sitting on the edge of his bed, hands folded in her lap. The light from the hallway cast a soft glow across her hair, and for a moment, neither of them said anything.
Moore's posture tensed. He didn't move further in.
"You're already here," he murmured.
"I didn't want to intrude," she said gently, "but… I wasn't sure you'd say yes if I knocked."
Silence again.
He stepped inside but didn't sit. Just hovered by the wall.
"I thought maybe we could talk," Ronell continued, eyes still on her hands. "It's been… distant lately, hasn't it?"
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Moore didn't respond right away. His expression didn't shift, but slowly, he gave a faint nod.
Ronell inhaled, steadying herself. "Look, I'm so—"
"Don't start."His voice cut through her softly. Not angry. Not cold. Just tired.
She blinked. "What?"
"I know what you're going to say." Moore finally turned toward her. His eyes weren't sharp, but they held something weary. "And I don't want to hear you apologize for something that isn't your fault."
Ronell was quiet.
He ran a hand through his hair, slowly approaching the desk and leaning against it.
"You're allowed to have a life," he muttered. "Friends. Plans. You don't owe me all your time."
She looked up at him, but he wasn't looking at her.
"But that's not it," she said softly.
Moore exhaled through his nose.
"Then what is it?" His voice wasn't sharp. Just frayed around the edges. "Why do I feel like everything's changing and I can't catch up?"
Ronell stood. Crossed the room.
For a moment she didn't say anything. Just stood beside him, the silence sitting between them like something living.
"Maybe it is changing," she said eventually. "But that doesn't mean we lose each other."
Moore's eyes flicked to her, guarded.
"You don't need to chase me, Moore. You've always been beside me."
He looked away again. "It doesn't feel that way."
She hesitated. Then, carefully, she reached out—just enough to let her fingers graze his sleeve.
"Then let me remind you."
The room went still again, the only sound the quiet hum of the summer evening slipping in through the open window.
Moore didn't answer. But he didn't pull away, either.
And for tonight, that was enough.