I don’t plan to see them.
That’s the part I keep repeating to myself as I walk down the street, hands shoved into my coat pockets, breath fogging in the cold air. I tell myself I’m just going for a walk. That I need space. That my head feels too full to sit still in my mother’s house, surrounded by tension and half-truths and the sharp smell of lemon cleaner.
I don’t plan to see them.
But life doesn’t care about plans.
The café is one Melissa and I have passed a hundred times without entering. Neutral. Tasteful. Quiet. The kind of place she would choose if she wanted privacy without looking like she wanted secrecy. When I notice it, it’s only because I recognize her car parked across the street.
Her car.
My steps slow before I consciously decide to stop.
A familiar unease crawls up my spine, cold and electric. I tell myself there are a thousand reasons she could be here. A friend. A colleague. A meeting that has nothing to do with me.
Harry.
The name surfaces unbidden, unwelcome.
I don’t cross the street right away. I stand there, frozen, my heart beating too fast, my thoughts tripping over each other. I hate myself for hesitating, for wanting to look and not wanting to look at the same time.
Curiosity wins.
It always does.
The bell above the café door chimes softly when I push it open. Warm air wraps around me, heavy with the scent of coffee and baked bread. The place is half full, voices low, intimate. I scan the room instinctively—
And then I see them.
They’re sitting in the corner by the window.
Together.
Too close.
Melissa is laughing, her head tilted slightly, her hand resting on the table like she belongs there. Like she’s comfortable. Relaxed. Alive in a way I haven’t seen since I was a child and didn’t understand what I was witnessing.
And across from her…
Professor Harry Wilson.
Not Professor here. Just Harry. His jacket is off, draped over the back of his chair. His sleeves are rolled up casually, forearms exposed. He’s leaning in as he listens, his expression warm, familiar, intimate in a way that makes my stomach drop violently.
This isn’t new.
This isn’t tentative.
This is practiced.
My body reacts before my mind does. Heat rushes to my face. My chest tightens painfully. My vision blurs at the edges as if the world has tilted slightly off its axis.
They don’t notice me.
They’re too absorbed in each other.
Melissa reaches across the table and brushes her fingers against his wrist.
He smiles.
Not the polite, encouraging smile he gives students.
Not the composed expression he wears in lecture halls.
This smile is personal. Chosen. Real.
Something inside me fractures.
The attraction I’ve been fighting—the quiet pull, the imagined calm, the unspoken what if—crashes headfirst into reality. Shame floods my veins, thick and suffocating. Every moment I thought was innocent replays itself in my mind with brutal clarity.
The way his voice steadied me.
The way he looked at me when I spoke.
The way my chest loosened in his presence.
I didn’t imagine it.
But it was never for me.
And worse—It was never allowed to be.
I take a step backward, my heel catching slightly on the rug. The movement draws Melissa’s attention.
Her eyes lift. Our gazes lock. The smile falls from her face instantly.
For a split second, she looks… afraid.
Then she sees my expression.
And she knows.
Time seems to stretch, thicken, slow to a crawl. Professor Wilson—Harry—turns to see what caught her attention.
His eyes land on me.
Recognition hits him like a physical blow.
“Zoey,” he says, standing abruptly.
Hearing my name in his voice here—in this place, in this context—makes my stomach churn.
“I—” he starts, then stops himself.
Melissa stands too, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Zoey. This isn’t—”
“What?” I ask, my voice shockingly steady. “What isn’t this?”
The café feels too quiet now. I’m aware of other patrons glancing over, sensing the tension even if they don’t understand it.
I laugh softly, incredulously. “You’re not even going to try?”
“Not here,” Melissa says sharply, reaching for my arm.
I pull away instinctively. “Don’t touch me.”
Harry looks like he wants to disappear. Or intervene. Or both.
“I never crossed a boundary,” he says quickly, his voice calm but strained. “Not with you. Ever.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s not the point.”
The point is everything else. The attraction I felt. The guilt that ate at me. The way I trusted his advice because it felt clean and safe.
All while he was sleeping with my mother.
“You’ve been dating,” I say, looking at Melissa. “How long?”
She presses her lips together. “A few months.”
The timeline slams into place with nauseating clarity.
The recommendation letter. The odd tension. The way she flinched at his name.
I shake my head slowly. “You knew.”
“I knew of him,” she snaps. “Not about your feelings.”
“Feelings I tried not to have,” I reply. “Feelings I hated myself for.”
Harry takes a step closer, careful, respectful. “Zoey, I am so sorry. I never intended—”
I hold up a hand. “Stop.”
He freezes.
“This isn’t about intent,” I say. “It’s about impact.”
Melissa exhales sharply. “You’re being dramatic.”
That’s when something old and deep breaks open inside me.
“Dramatic?” I echo. “You lied to me. You let me spiral. You criticized my relationship while hiding your own.”
“This is different,” she insists.
“Is it?” I demand. “Or did you just get better at hiding it?”
Her eyes flash. “Watch your tone.”
“No,” I say quietly. “I’m done watching it.”
The words feel surreal as they leave my mouth. Heavy. Liberating.
“I trusted you,” I continue. “Both of you. In different ways. And now I don’t know what any of it meant.”
Harry’s face is pale. “Zoey, if you’d like, I can step away from—”
“No,” I say immediately. “Don’t make this about sacrifice now.”
He nods, swallowing hard.
Melissa folds her arms. “You’re projecting your breakup onto this situation.”
“I’m reacting to betrayal,” I reply. “And to the fact that I built parts of myself around lies I didn’t know were lies.”
Silence settles again, thick and unbearable. I look at them.
“I need air,” I say.
Melissa opens her mouth to argue. I don’t give her the chance. I turn and walk out of the café, the bell chiming behind me like an ending note.
Outside, the cold hits me hard, stealing my breath. I stumble a few steps down the sidewalk before stopping, pressing a hand to my chest as if I can hold myself together by force.
Everything feels exposed. And I don’t know who I am supposed to trust now.