Kirsch noticed the change before he admitted it to himself.
At first, it was nothing measurable. Just a feeling. A subtle misalignment in the rhythm of the nights. The café still glowed the same way after midnight, the hum of the refrigerator still buzzed softly behind the counter, the same two employees still rotated shifts with practiced boredom. Everything was intact.
Except Lita.
She used to arrive before him.
Not early—never early—but reliably. By the time Kirsch ordered his drink and slid into their usual table, she would already be there, jacket draped over the chair, phone facedown, eyes half-lidded like she'd been awake far longer than she admitted.
Now, he arrived first.
The first time it happened, Kirsch told himself nothing had changed. He ordered as usual, sat down, placed his hands around the warm cup, and waited.
Ten minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
He checked the door more often than he meant to.
When Lita finally appeared, slightly breathless, hair tied back in a way he hadn't seen before, she smiled apologetically like she'd been late to something important.
"Sorry," she said, slipping into her seat. "Traffic was weird."
"At night?" Kirsch asked before he could stop himself.
She laughed. "I know. That's what I thought too."
He nodded, accepting it. That was what he did now—accept things.
She stayed less than an hour that night.
Not because she was in a hurry, she said. Just tired. Just adjusting. Just figuring things out.
Kirsch watched her yawn mid-sentence, hand hovering near her mouth like she hadn't meant to show it.
"No, it's fine," he said quickly when she hesitated. "You should rest."
She looked relieved. "Yeah. I probably should."
When she left, the chair across from him stayed warm for longer than it should have.
The next night, she arrived later.
And the night after that, later still.
Sometimes she texted him—short messages, nothing dramatic.
Running behind.
Might be a short one tonight.
Still coming, just late.
Kirsch told himself the messages were reassurance.
But they felt like disclaimers.
When she did arrive, her energy was different. Less folded inward. More alert—but not in the way night people were alert. It was the sharp, over-caffeinated awareness of someone fighting a clock they didn't belong to.
She talked more.
Not deeper—just more.
About alarms. About adjusting sleep cycles. About how strange sunlight felt when you hadn't seen it properly in months.
"I forgot how aggressive mornings are," she said one night, rubbing her temple. "Everything is loud. Even silence."
Kirsch smiled faintly. "They don't ease you into existence."
"No," she said. "They demand it."
She laughed, but there was something proud underneath it. Like surviving mornings was a small victory she hadn't known she wanted.
Kirsch listened.
He always listened.
He noticed how her sentences were now oriented forward—toward plans, schedules, future adjustments. She spoke in will and probably and next week.
The café had always been a place without future tense.
Now it was leaking in.
Her phone sat on the table more often, screen lighting up with reminders and notifications. She checked the time repeatedly, brows knitting together when the hour crept too far forward.
"I should go soon," she'd say, glancing toward the door.
Soon came earlier every night.
Kirsch never protested.
He never said stay.
He never asked why not later?
Because that wasn't who he was.
Because asking would mean admitting he wanted her there.
And wanting implied attachment. And attachment implied loss.
So instead, he adjusted.
He spoke faster, compressed his thoughts, cut stories short before they could stretch into something meaningful. He learned to end conversations mid-note, like closing a book before the chapter finished.
"It's okay," he'd say when she apologized again. "You've got mornings now."
She smiled at that, pleased. "Yeah. I do."
Sometimes, she left before he finished his drink.
Sometimes, she didn't come at all.
On those nights, Kirsch sat alone, pretending not to notice the empty chair.
The café staff didn't ask questions. They never had. But one night, the barista glanced at the untouched seat and then at Kirsch.
"She's not coming tonight?" she asked casually.
"Probably not," Kirsch said.
The word probably tasted strange.
He started arriving later himself.
There was no point coming early if she wouldn't be there yet. Or might not come at all.
But even then, he often arrived too early—sat alone, watching the door, pretending he wasn't waiting.
When Lita did show up, she looked different.
Healthier, maybe.
Her eyes were clearer. Her posture less collapsed. There was color in her face that hadn't been there before.
"You look good," Kirsch said one night, surprising himself.
She blinked. "Oh. Thanks."
"Yeah," he added, awkwardly. "I mean—you seem… rested."
She laughed softly. "That's new."
She told him about therapy sessions. Not in detail. Just enough to signal progress.
"Turns out," she said, stirring her drink, "I wasn't broken. Just exhausted."
Kirsch nodded.
He didn't know what to do with that information.
Because exhaustion had been the common language between them. The thing that made silence comfortable and nights necessary.
If she wasn't exhausted anymore—if she was healing—what did that make him?
Some nights, she talked about sunlight like it was a revelation.
"It's weird," she said once. "I don't hate it anymore."
Kirsch smiled. "High praise."
"I know, right?" She leaned back. "I used to think mornings were punishment."
"And now?"
"Now they feel like… a second chance."
The phrase lodged itself in Kirsch's chest.
Second chance.
He wondered what that made the nights.
A holding pattern?
A temporary shelter?
Something you left behind once you learned how to stand in daylight?
Their conversations grew shorter, lighter. Still honest—but less exposed.
They talked around things instead of through them.
Kirsch noticed he was the only one doing the remembering now.
He remembered when she used to trace the rim of her cup endlessly. When she stayed until the sky started lightening without comment. When she never checked the time.
Now she checked it constantly.
"I should go," she said one night, standing abruptly. "I've got an early start."
"Right," Kirsch said.
She hesitated, hand on the back of her chair. "You're okay, right?"
The question startled him.
"Yeah," he said immediately. Too quickly. "Of course."
She smiled, reassured. "Good."
After she left, Kirsch sat alone, staring at the door long after it closed.
He realized something then—something uncomfortable and undeniable.
The nights weren't ending because time was passing.
They were ending because she no longer needed them.
And Kirsch was still here, measuring his existence in hours that no longer matched hers.
He didn't resent her for it.
He admired her.
That was the worst part.
He finished his drink, stood, and left earlier than usual.
Outside, the streetlights flickered as the sky slowly shifted toward gray.
Morning was coming.
And for the first time, Kirsch wondered how many nights he had left before this place—this table, this silence—became something he remembered instead of lived in.