The café felt smaller at night like this.
Not physically—nothing about the walls or the tables had changed—but emotionally, like the darkness outside pressed inward, shrinking the world down to what could be seen and nothing more. The windows reflected more than they revealed. Streetlights blurred into soft halos. The city became an abstract painting of movement and glow.
Kirsch liked it that way.
He arrived later than usual, the clock on the register blinking 1:17 a.m. as he stepped inside. The barista looked up, surprised, then nodded without comment. Kirsch didn't explain. He never did. Nights didn't require explanations.
Lita was already at their table.
She was sitting differently tonight—closer to the edge of her chair, shoulders tense, fingers laced tightly around her cup. Her tea had gone untouched. When she noticed him, she exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for a while.
"Rough night?" Kirsch asked.
"Something like that."
That was all she offered. He didn't press.
He sat down, and the familiar quiet slid into place. But it didn't feel as settled as usual. There was a current under it, faint but persistent, like static before a storm.
Kirsch stirred his coffee slowly, watching the surface ripple. "You ever think," he said, "that we're different people depending on the time?"
Lita's eyes flicked up to his. Sharp. Curious.
"Different how?"
He shrugged. "At night, I don't have to pretend I'm fine. No one expects anything. I don't have to smile or explain why I'm tired. I just… exist."
She considered that, gaze drifting back to the window.
"During the day," she said quietly, "I'm someone else entirely."
Kirsch felt the weight of that settle between them.
"Better or worse?" he asked.
"More functional," she said. "Less real."
The words lingered.
Kirsch realized then that the night had given them permission—not to be happy, but to be honest. There was safety in being unseen. In being overlooked. In knowing the world was busy elsewhere.
Daylight demanded performance.
Night only asked that you stay awake.
They watched a couple enter the café, laughing too loudly, still carrying fragments of their evening with them. Their clothes were too neat, their energy too bright. They didn't belong here. Not really.
"They won't last long," Lita murmured.
"Give it ten minutes," Kirsch said.
Eight minutes later, they left.
Lita smiled, faintly triumphant.
"See?" she said. "Day people."
Kirsch laughed under his breath.
"Do you think," she continued, fingers tracing the rim of her cup, "that if people saw us during the day, they'd recognize us?"
Kirsch imagined it: sunlight, clean sidewalks, conversations that began with pleasantries and ended with plans. He imagined himself there, standing straighter, speaking less honestly. Wearing a version of himself that fit better but meant less.
"I don't think they'd like us," he said.
"I don't think they'd notice," Lita replied.
That felt worse.
The night stretched on, slow and indulgent. Outside, a delivery truck passed, its engine humming low and steady. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed, distant enough to be someone else's problem.
Kirsch leaned back in his chair. "There's something about night," he said. "It forgives you."
"For what?" Lita asked.
"For not being okay," he said. "For not knowing what you're doing."
She nodded slowly. "In the daytime, people want progress. At night, they're satisfied if you're still breathing."
Her tea had gone cold. She didn't seem to care.
They sat there, existing as their night selves—less defined, less demanding. Versions of themselves stripped down to exhaustion and quiet thoughts.
"You ever wonder," Kirsch said, "what happens if this version of you disappears?"
Lita's hand tightened around her cup.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
He hesitated. This was dangerous territory. But the night felt sturdy enough to hold it.
"I mean… what if one day, you don't need this anymore?"
Her eyes stayed on him, unreadable.
"Then I'd be healed," she said.
Kirsch nodded, even as something in his chest twisted.
"That's good," he said. "Healing is good."
"Is it?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer right away.
Healing meant daylight. Daylight meant disappearance.
They both knew it, even if neither of them wanted to say it out loud.
Lita finally stood, restless. She paced a short circle around the table, then returned to her seat. "I don't like mornings," she said suddenly. "They're too loud. Too decisive."
Kirsch smiled. "Too much future."
"Exactly," she said. "At night, the future feels… optional."
Kirsch thought of the way time felt suspended here. How nothing seemed urgent. How no one asked what came next.
"That's why this place works," he said. "It's outside of everything."
Lita met his eyes then, something vulnerable flickering across her face. "Promise me something," she said.
Kirsch straightened. "What?"
"Don't ask me who I am during the day."
He nodded immediately. "I won't."
"And I won't ask you either," she added.
They sealed the promise with silence.
A promise not to know.
As the clock crept toward morning, the café began its subtle transformation. The lighting brightened a notch. The music shifted, almost imperceptibly. The world preparing to wake.
Lita noticed first.
"It's almost time," she said.
"For them," Kirsch replied.
She smiled sadly. "For us too."
She gathered her things, slower than usual. Kirsch watched her, aware of the weight in every movement.
"At night," she said, pausing at the table, "we're allowed to exist without explanation."
Kirsch nodded. "And during the day?"
"We're just stories other people tell about us," she said.
Then she left, swallowed by the thinning darkness.
Kirsch stayed behind, watching the night retreat inch by inch. He felt exposed as the light crept back in, like someone had turned a mirror on him without warning.
He finished his coffee, now lukewarm, and stood.
Outside, the sky was already losing its color.
And for the first time, Kirsch wondered how long the night would keep forgiving them.