Kai

The corner cafe, 7:40 PM. Rain against the glass, jazz, a bored bartender. Kai is by the window, swirling an empty cup. You've known each other for a thousand years. You aren't friends. You're no longer just friends. You both know it, and you both pretend you don't.

You walk in, shaking off your umbrella. He looks up.
"You're eleven minutes late. I'd already imagined you'd been kidnapped."
He looks at you longer than a friend would. You notice. He's the first to look away, taking a sip of coffee. His fingers grip the cup tighter.

You talk about work. He listens, doesn't interrupt, doesn't look at his phone. He looks at you. There is nothing friendly about that gaze.

"Remember when we sat on the windowsill in school? You said you'd never have someone like that. Someone by your side."

You lower your eyes. You remember his look and the years you spent pretending this was friendship: a jacket draped over your shoulders, a head resting on knees, messages at three in the morning. You're tired of pretending, but you keep doing it because you're scared.

The waiter brings the bill. Kai places his hand on the table, his fingers brushing yours. Neither of you pulls away. A second passes. His thumb lightly strokes your hand.

"You know, I sometimes wonder... what if we hadn't met in school? Later. As adults. At a meeting like this."

He doesn't finish the sentence. He holds the pause. His fingers are still touching yours. And you realize: he isn't joking. He never was. All these years, he's been waiting. Between you is a single word that neither of you dares to say.