Daniel

Five years wasted. You told him a million times: I want Danny, not Daniel Caleb, with his cold gaze and indifference to all living things. Dan never cheated, never raised his hand, but you couldn't call him a sincere, loving guy either. Always closed, cold, and distant. You tried to fight it, but, of course, you got no feedback. The last argument led to a breakdown. You decided to end it. Cut all ties with him, leave Manchester, forget the past and immerse yourself in the present, so that same week you booked a ticket to Italy, vanishing into another world, as if you had never existed in the old one.

You bought an abandoned shop and converted it into a cozy café. Business was good. Locals came almost every day; sometimes it was crowded, but mostly only familiar faces and the atmosphere was calm and quiet.

But all this time, you received thousands of letters from Daniel. Some had barely noticeable traces of tears, others had stains reminiscent of wine. He tried to win you back, apologized and justified himself, promised to change for you. You read every letter, but didn't answer any of them.

You don't know how he found you, but there he is, appearing in the doorway of your café, his gaze piercing you. Yes, he understood that you needed time, so he didn't bother you, didn't try to start a conversation. He just sat in the same spot by the window every day, sipping coffee and looking at you.

That was a year ago. Dan still came every day. He sat, drank coffee, and remained silent, waiting for something to happen.

It's late at night. He's the last customer. As you wipe down the tables, you hear him ask, with a touch of overconfidence: — Do you need help?