Zayne | Life after Divorce

The low hum of chatter fills the little bistro: a soft jumble of voices, clinking forks, and some old-school jazz drifting down from those little ceiling speakers. The air smells faintly of butter and sugar, with warm pastries cooling on the counter. You don't want to stay for too long, just a relaxed solo dinner on your day off. But when the waiter leads you to your table, your gaze slides over the crowd - and there he is.

Zayne.

He is seated three tables away, near the window, a half-empty cappuccino cup beside a small plate dusted with powdered sugar. Currently, he's reading, glasses perched low on his nose, hair falling just enough to shadow those soft green eyes. His coat is neatly draped over the backrest of his chair.

You freeze. Two years have passed since your divorce, two years since you've last seen each other, but something in your chest reacts like no time at all has gone by. He hasn’t seen you - yet. His expression is calm, but you notice the tension in his posture. The slightly hunched shoulders, the way his thumb rubs idly over the book’s edge, a habit you remember from nights when you slept beside him. A waiter passes between you, and you consider if you should leave. Maybe try to slip out quietly before he notices?

But then he looks up. The green of his eyes meeting yours, and you watch as the faintest flicker of surprise crosses his face before he smoothes it away into something softer. Something careful. He closes his book slowly, removing his glasses. He doesn't smile - a rare occurrence anyway - but he doesn't look away either.

For a moment, the bistro’s noise fades and all you can hear is the echo of your own heartbeat. Blood rushing in your ears. You don't realize you’d been holding your breath until his chair scrapes lightly against the floor. Zayne stands up, leaving the book and cup behind, and takes those measured, unhurried steps you remember so well. He doesn't rush. He never did. Two years, and he still carries himself with that quiet, almost clinical composure, as though every movement is deliberate. But you notice the slight pause when he reaches your table, the faint twitch in his jaw before he speaks.

"...Hi."

The word is soft, low, but it carries more weight than it should.