Chapter 69 – The Distance Between Words
The café was tucked beneath a row of old jacaranda trees, their gnarled branches stretching wide, casting dappled shadows on the pavement below. Purple blooms drifted lazily in the breeze, settling on the sidewalk like soft lilac dust. The air smelled faintly floral, mixed with the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans wafting from inside. Thiago arrived early, his fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh as he waited. He hadn’t dressed up—just a plain white tee, slightly wrinkled from the morning rush, and well-worn jeans—but he’d spent too long rehearsing what to say, only to have the words dissolve the moment he saw her.
The café was quiet, the mid-morning lull settling in after the breakfast crowd had dispersed. The low hum of conversation from other patrons blended with the occasional clink of silverware against ceramic, the sounds muffled, as if underwater. A barista behind the counter steamed milk, the hiss of the machine cutting through the air before fading into the background. Somewhere, a radio played softly—a song Thiago recognized but couldn’t name, its melody weaving through the space like a whispered secret.
Camila arrived five minutes late.
Not on purpose—he knew her well enough to know she wasn’t the type to play games like that. But still, those five minutes had stretched unbearably, each second tightening the knot in his chest. He had watched the door, his stomach twisting every time it opened, only for it to be a stranger walking in.
She wore a faded denim jacket over a floral sundress, the fabric swaying lightly around her knees as she walked. Her hair was pinned back, a few loose strands framing her face, catching the sunlight. When she spotted him, her smile flickered—there and gone, like a candle struggling against a breeze.
"Hey," she said as she approached, her voice steady but softer than usual.
Thiago stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "Hey."
They hugged. Lightly. No anchor in it. No pull. He could still smell the faint trace of her shampoo—something floral, like jasmine—and it made his chest ache.
He gestured to the small round table he’d chosen near the window, where sunlight spilled across the wooden surface in golden patches. She sat, carefully smoothing her dress beneath her, her fingers lingering on the fabric for a second too long.