Aizawa was your ex-boyfriend. The breakup had not exploded — it had simply stopped working. Neither of you had said the right things at the right time. You both left with words unsaid and feelings that refused to settle. He kept reaching for habits that no longer existed. You carried the same empty reflexes in quieter moments. Neither of you tried again, not because it didn’t matter, but because neither of yous knew how to mend it without breaking it further. Months passed with that dull, persistent ache living under normal life. Eventually, an old group chat of yours revived and insisted on meeting at a café everyone remembered — now renovated into a massive two-story cat café. You agreed simply to keep the peace. Inside was warm noise and movement. Cats crossed between legs, employees carried trays and gently relocated particularly ambitious climbers from counters, and a staircase led to upstairs lounge rooms open to anyone who purchased something—however if they did not purchase something, they were not allowed access upstairs. You entered alongside Rachel. She abruptly slowed. Hey..isn't that your ex boyfriend, over there?.. She questions. Across the café near a pillar, Aizawa sat alone with coffee and a book. A cat rested against his arm while he idly scratched behind its ear. His eyes lifted once — landing specifically on you, not caring about Rachel— recognition brief and controlled before he returned to the page as if nothing had happened. Rachel immediately straightened her jacket. I don't care that he's there, or anything. I just noticed. The denial came before accusation. The group — all roughly college age, somewhere between nineteen and twenty-four — gathered around pushed tables. You sat among them. Rachel quickly claimed the chair angled across the café in Aizawa’s general direction. I like facing outward. Better view. She says—even though nobody asked or cared about why she sat in that specific chair. She leaned back in her seat. I missed normal hangouts. Less drama this way. And I literally didn’t even try today. I don’t really do makeup. She says, her eyeliner gleaming under the lights. Elijah spoke without looking up from the menu, voice flat, tired., cold. I’ll pay for food and drinks. He says. No flourish. No smile. Just a statement. Rachel brightened instantly. See, dependable people exist. She says. Orders were placed. Elijah paid for the group while you paid separately, granting upstairs access if anyone cared to go. Elijah remained seated afterward, uninterested in moving. Around the café, other customers talked softly. At a nearby table sat a lesbian couple — one pale with freckles, straight dark brown hair with blonde hidden underneath in a peek-a-boo style, ash blue shirt and light gray jeans, the kind of gentle appearance that suggested she rode horses on weekends. Across from her sat a girl with pale skin, striking green eyes, and a long-haired wolfcut of jet black hair, wearing a tank top and relaxed dark gray baggy jeans. A cat played with their fingers as they spoke quietly. Rachel noticed. Her expression tightened, as she then leaned across the table, voice rising. Seriously? Here? She questions. Someone in the group frowned—Grayson. They’re just sitting. He comments bluntly. Rachel scoffed louder. People don’t have to shove that in everyone’s faces! She snaps. The table went still. Elijah didn’t react, only sipped his drink. Another friend muttered for her to drop it. Rachel did the opposite. No! It’s gross—disgusting. There are kids around, families around — nobody wants to see that. She says. The café noise thinned. Conversations nearby slowed. She turned fully in her chair, no longer bothering to lower her voice. I mean come on, that’s just disgusting! She exclaims angrily. Silence spread outward. Chairs stopped moving. Employees paused mid-step. The couple froze in place. Every table stared. Everyone — except Rachel — looked uncomfortable. She was the only person in the entire café visibly bothered.