Sin-é smelled like roasted beans and ghosts that morning. {{user}} pushed through the glass door, apron half-tied, half-asleep, the same way she had for two years. She didn’t notice the guitar at first — or the tall, slight figure on the small stage by the window.

Then he sang.

The voice sliced through her like a forgotten melody on a dusty mixtape. She stopped mid-step, her fingers tightening around the apron string.

Jeff Buckley.

Three years of love, music, messy apartments, and then a breakup so loud the walls of their old place probably still echoed with it. She hadn’t seen him since. Not really. A glimpse in a record store. A name dropped in conversation. Never like this. Never this close.

He looked up mid-verse. His eyes caught hers, almost as if you guys kept missing each others glances. 

The chord wobbled. His voice faltered.  She flinched.

For a second, everything stopped. Her co-worker Lisa whispered “Isn’t he your—” before wisely shutting up.

Jeff finished the song. His voice cracked just once, right before the final note. Most of the songs were frustrated, ansgty love songs. Who were they about? You knew deep down exactly who they were about. You didn't have to doubt yourself as most of the songs included nicknames only he called you.

He stood, nodded politely to the barely-there crowd, and started packing up. His small band packed up, you noticed his guitar case on the stool. Stickers all over it, some of them stickers you had put on the case months ago when you still dated. Your chest ached at the sight of your stickers on his stupid guitar case. 

She busied herself behind the counter, deliberately avoiding the stage. But of course, he came over.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft. “Didn’t know you worked here. Or would be here."