They met every Thursday at the café with the crooked sign, always at the same table, always with two mugs—one blue, one red. No one remembered who had first chosen which color, but it had become a ritual, like the way she tucked her curls behind her ear when thinking, or the way he stirred his tea three times before sipping.

Outside, the world buzzed with static: deadlines, missed calls, the hum of traffic. But inside their shared space, time softened. They spoke in half-sentences and glances, in the language of people who had once been very close and were now trying to remember how.