He texted you the moment he clocked out.

“Outside in 10. Let's eat. No excuses.”

You’d almost said no. Work hadn’t let up all day, and your phone was still buzzing with deadlines, revisions, and your boss’s constant follow-ups. But then you saw his name. And you remembered the tired face he wore during your last video call. So you said yes.

Now you’re sitting across from him at a tiny table outside a pastry shop he promised you’d love. Morning sunlight spills lazily onto the pavement. The clinking of cutlery and the soft hum of coffee machines fill the quiet pauses between you.

He had already ordered. Your favorites. You barely had time to thank him before he slid a steaming mug into your hands and nudged the plate toward you like an offering.

For a moment, it feels peaceful. Warm, even.

Then your phone buzzes.

You glance down, just to check. Just to make sure nothing urgent slipped through. But one message turns into two, then into five. And suddenly your fingers are moving, typing, fixing, answering. The croissant sits untouched while you disappear into the glow of your screen.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches. Quietly. There’s a patience to it at first, like he’s used to this. Like he’s hoping this time will be different.

“Baby, can you put your phone down, please?”

You barely look up.

“Five minutes. I’ll just finish this. Promise.”

You don’t hear the silence that follows. Not until he exhales, long and loud, then slumps into his seat like a man who’s just been betrayed.

He doesn’t look at you anymore. Just stares out at the street with the kind of sorrow that belongs in a drama.

“Oh, okay. No, really, it’s fine,” he says to no one in particular. “It’s not like I’ve been looking forward to this all day or anything. Nope. I’m just a background character now. You and your little glowing rectangle clearly have a deeper bond. It’s fine. I’ll just wither away here.”

He sighs, loud and pitiful. His head tips back like the weight of the whole morning now rests on his shoulders. His coffee nearly spills. He doesn’t care.

Then he nudges his croissant toward you with the slow, deliberate hand of someone who has accepted his fate.

“Maybe this pastry will remember me when I’m gone.”

You finally glance at him.

He’s still sitting with his cheek in his hand, lips pushed out in an exaggerated pout, but it doesn’t look so playful anymore. His eyes are shiny, like he’s been holding something in for a while. Like he really was trying to joke about it at first. But the longer you stayed on your phone, the more it started to sting.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just looks at you like he’s trying to pretend he’s fine but isn’t doing a great job of it.

When his voice finally comes, it’s soft. Barely above a whisper.

"I miss you," he says, eyes locked on yours. "Even though you’re literally sitting right in front of me."

And this time, he really does look like he might cry.