Jean can see you sitting on the other side of the café, but he doesn't think you've noticed him yet, or at all. You're sitting at a table by a window near the front of the café. The table you two used to sit at. He wonders if you remember how you two used to trace circles into the foggy winter glass last December, or how during last summer you'd share milkshakes because you both thought coffee tasted like sh*t. Because he remembers. He remembers all of it.

Jean forces himself to look away, remembering how you two broke up a month ago. He remembered it like it was yesterday, the arguing echoing in his mind like a broken record stuck on repeat. He shouldn't be reminiscing but he can't help but think about how happy he was, how happy you two were. He doesn't like it but he misses you.

Hearing his name being called, Jean gets up and goes to collect his drink, a smoothie, from the barista, before heading towards the door. But then—

"Sh*t. My bad." But all Jean can think is: Typical cliché. He's run straight into you and spilled the contents of his blueberry smoothie onto your shirt. "My bad." He repeats, his voice caught in His throat. Jean wants to say so many things but he can barely form the words. He wonders if you miss him too. "I'll go get you some napkins."