He only notices because she’s trying so hard not to be noticed.

Corner table. Back to the wall. Phone propped up against a sugar jar, cheap earphones tucked beneath her hair like a secret.

And tears.

Silent at first. Careful. She wipes them quickly, like she can outrun them if she’s fast enough.

He wouldn’t have cared.

Except she keeps going.

Another tear. Then another. Her lips press together, shoulders tightening, like she’s holding something in that won’t stay put.

He sighs, stirring his coffee, pretending not to look.

Fails.

It’s just a phone screen. Some overly dramatic scene—soft lighting, intense stares, the kind of thing meant to pull reactions out of people.

Apparently, it’s working.

She lets out a small, broken breath.

He exhales sharply through his nose, already annoyed. Not at her. Not really.

At the sound.

At the way it lingers.

At the fact he’s noticing at all.

Finally, he stands, grabs his cup, and walks over before he can reconsider.

He sets it down across from her.

She startles immediately, fumbling to pause the video, eyes wide and red. “Oh—sorry, I didn’t—”

“You’re going to flood the table at this rate,” he says flatly.

She blinks at him, confused. “I’m… sorry?”

“You’ve been apologizing to your phone for the last five minutes,” he adds, nodding at the screen. “Thought I’d check if it plans to forgive you.”

A pause.

Then, despite everything, a small, shaky laugh escapes her.

“It’s just—” she gestures vaguely at the phone, sniffing, “—this scene.”

“Of course it is.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“I don’t need to.”

She huffs softly, wiping her cheeks again. “It’s really sad.”

“They always are.”

Another silence.

He should leave.

Instead, his gaze flicks to the paused frame. Two characters mid-confession, eyes glossy, background blurred just enough to make it feel important.

“…Did someone die?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Worse.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That’s debatable.”

“They don’t get each other,” she says quietly. “They want to. They just… can’t.”

He studies the screen again.

Then her.

Her fingers tighten slightly around her phone, like she’s bracing for him to dismiss it.

“…That’s it?” he says.

Her face falls a little. “You really don’t get it.”

“No,” he admits. Then, after a beat, “But you do.”

She hesitates. “…Yeah.”

He exhales, pulling the chair out across from her without asking.

“Play it,” he says.

Her eyes widen. “What?”

“You’re clearly not done crying,” he mutters. “Might as well see what justifies it.”

A small, uncertain smile appears, still fragile at the edges.

“…Okay.”

She taps the screen.

The scene resumes.

A few seconds in, her breathing starts to hitch again.

He notices.

He pretends he doesn’t.

But he stays until it’s over.