Kirsch knew something was wrong the moment the café clock ticked past 1:30 a.m.
Lita was never punctual in the way normal people were punctual, but she was consistent. Even during the last few weeks—shorter visits, later arrivals—there had always been a pattern. A message. A sign. Some indication that the night still belonged to both of them, even if only briefly.
Tonight, there was nothing.
No text. No apology in advance. No running late bubble lighting up his phone.
Kirsch sat at their table with his drink untouched, eyes drifting between the door and the reflection of himself in the darkened window. The café was quieter than usual. Fewer customers. Fewer footsteps. Even the espresso machine sounded subdued, like it had learned to lower its voice.
He checked his phone again.
Still nothing.
She probably overslept, he told himself.
The thought didn't hurt the way he expected it to. It felt… logical. Natural, even. Oversleeping meant mornings were winning. It meant alarms mattered more than nights now.
It meant progress.
He hated that he understood that.
By 2:00 a.m., the chair across from him felt accusatory in its emptiness.
Kirsch tried to read. Tried to scroll. Tried to focus on anything other than the absence sitting so loudly beside him. But everything he did felt like waiting disguised as activity.
At 2:17 a.m., the door finally opened.
Lita stepped inside like she wasn't sure she belonged there anymore.
Her hair was messier than usual, pulled back hastily. Her jacket hung open, mismatched with the rest of her outfit, like she'd dressed on instinct rather than intention. There was a faint crease on her cheek—the unmistakable mark of someone who had slept longer than planned.
She scanned the café, spotted Kirsch, and paused.
For half a second, something crossed her face.
Guilt. Relief. Maybe both.
"I—" she started, then stopped. "Sorry."
Kirsch stood halfway out of his chair before realizing he didn't need to. He sat back down.
"It's okay," he said. And this time, it wasn't automatic. It was true.
She joined him slowly, like approaching a place that had changed while she was gone.
"I overslept," she admitted quietly. "My alarm didn't go off."
"That happens," Kirsch said.
She smiled weakly. "Yeah. I guess it does."
They sat there for a moment without speaking.
The silence between them felt different tonight. Not awkward. Not strained. Just… longer. Heavier. Like something had already been decided, and neither of them wanted to be the one to say it out loud.
Lita wrapped her hands around her cup, staring into it as if the answer to something important might rise to the surface.
"I almost didn't come," she said.
Kirsch nodded. "I figured."
Not accusation. Not disappointment. Just acknowledgment.
"I thought," she continued, "what's the point of showing up for thirty minutes? But then I realized… I wanted to."
That mattered more than she probably knew.
"I'm glad you did," Kirsch said.
She looked at him then. Really looked. Like she was trying to memorize his face without making it obvious.
Their conversation that night was sparse.
Not because they had nothing to say—but because everything felt like it might be the last version of itself.
They talked about neutral things. The café changing suppliers. A movie Kirsch hadn't watched. A coworker of hers who kept burning toast in the office kitchen.
No confessions.
No retrospection.
No "remember when."
They avoided memory the same way they had once avoided daylight.
At one point, Lita checked the time and inhaled sharply.
"I should go," she said.
Earlier than ever.
Kirsch nodded.
"Yeah."
She hesitated, fingers tightening around her cup.
"I didn't mean for it to end like this," she said softly.
"It's not ending," Kirsch replied, even as he knew it was a lie both of them needed.
"It's just… changing," she said.
He smiled faintly. "Things do that."
She stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She looked smaller standing up, like the night had always given her weight that daylight was now reclaiming.
For a moment, she hovered there—unsure.
Kirsch waited.
He always waited.
"I'm going to be okay," she said, almost to herself.
"I know," he replied.
She nodded, reassured.
Then she said the thing that felt like a goodbye without the cruelty of sounding like one.
"Take care of yourself, Kirsch."
The words landed gently.
Too gently.
"You too," he said.
She lingered for half a heartbeat longer, then turned and walked toward the door.
Kirsch didn't follow.
He didn't call out.
He didn't ask when he'd see her again.
Because asking would mean hoping.
And hope, he had learned, was something you only allowed yourself when you were ready to be disappointed.
The door closed behind her with a quiet chime.
The café returned to its hum.
Kirsch sat there for a long time afterward, staring at the empty chair.
Nothing dramatic happened.
No sudden realization. No rush of regret. No cinematic weight pressing down on his chest.
Just the slow understanding that this—this quiet, this stillness—was the aftermath.
He finished his drink. Gathered his things. Stood.
As he left the café, the sky was already lightening at the edges.
Morning had arrived without asking.
For the first time, Kirsch didn't resent it.
He walked home alone, carrying a night that no longer belonged to him—and wondering, not for the first time, what kind of person he would become once he finally learned how to exist in daylight.