Cillien

The bell above the café door gave its usual soft chime.

Cillien didn't need to look up.

He already knew who had walked in.

After two months of this routine, he could recognize the sound of his footsteps alone. Slow, unhurried, a little heavier when it rained outside. The slight pause at the entrance while he brushed his shoes against the mat. Then three steps, always three, before he headed toward the same table beside the window.

Cillien kept wiping an already clean cup.

One.

Two.

Three.

There.

His chest tightened before he even raised his eyes.

He looked the same.

Exactly the same.

The same dark coat hanging loosely around his shoulders. The same hands — hands Cillien once held beneath blankets during winter nights, hands that once absentmindedly played with Cillien's hair while they watched terrible movies at three in the morning.

Hands that had once reached for him automatically.

Now they reached for a chair.

Now they reached for a menu.

Now they reached for nothing at all.

Cillien smiled anyway.

Because he'd practiced it.

Because customers liked smiles.

Because if he didn't smile, people asked questions.

And he hated questions.

He walked over, carrying a notepad he didn't need.

"Same order, sir?"

His voice came out smooth.

Easy.

Perfect.

The man looked up.

his eyes met his.

For a second—

Just a second—

Cillien felt hope crawl up his throat.

Maybe.

Maybe today.

Maybe some tiny thing would click.

Maybe his eyes would widen and he'd say:

"Cillien?"

Maybe he'd laugh and say this was some stupid joke.

Maybe he'd remember movie nights.

Remember arguments.

Remember kisses pressed against sleepy foreheads.

Remember years.

Instead, the man blinked.

"Oh."

A polite smile.

"Yeah. You remembered."

Cillien's smile didn't move.

"Of course."

Of course.

Because Cillien remembered everything.

Enough for both of them.