Central Perk was quieter than usual that night.

The chairs were stacked on tables. The scent of freshly brewed coffee lingered, faint and warm. Only the soft hum of the espresso machine filled the background, along with your own quiet conversation.

Rachel slouched in the corner, hair tied back loosely, wearing a sweater that looked almost too big for her. She cradled her mug like it was an anchor.

“You know,” she said, staring into her drink, “I don’t really talk about… things. Not really.”

You leaned forward, curiosity steady, careful not to push. “Like what?”

She laughed softly, a little bitter. “Like me. My mistakes. My… insecurities. It’s easier to smile at customers, to talk about shoes or latte art, than to admit I don’t have it all figured out.”

You nodded. “You’re not supposed to have it all figured out. Nobody does.”

She shook her head, almost like she didn’t believe it. “But everyone expects it. I feel like everyone’s watching—Mom, Dad, my friends… even me sometimes.”

You let her speak, giving the silence space to hold her words.

“I didn’t even know what I wanted after high school,” Rachel admitted. “I moved to the city thinking I’d find something… someone… and sometimes I wonder if I’m still just figuring it out.”

You smiled gently. “Figuring it out is part of the ride. No one really has a map.”

For the first time, she looked at you fully, without the usual layers of charm or deflection. “It’s weird,” she said, voice quiet, “to tell someone this… and not feel judged.”

“Then I’ll stay quiet,” you said, “and listen.”

Rachel laughed—a soft, real laugh this time—and took a slow sip of her coffee. “Okay. I think I like that.”

The rest of the night passed in small confessions. Shared jokes. Comfortable silences. Central Perk felt warmer than it ever did during the morning rush.

By the time the lights dimmed and the staff cleaned up around you, Rachel exhaled, lighter somehow.

“Thanks,” she said softly, as if saying it out loud made it real.