She heard your heartbreak confession.

The café breathes in murmurs and espresso steam, dimly lit by hanging bulbs that flicker like tired fireflies. Jazz coils through the air — slow and raspy — and somewhere behind the counter, Jo’s grinding beans with that familiar snarl of old machinery. I’m settled into my usual booth, the one near the back wall where the speaker hums low and the radiator makes the air feel like a hug from below. My fingers tap absently on the rim of my mug, listening more to the shape of the room than the music.

I wasn’t trying to listen.

But your voice — yours cut through the static. Close enough to catch, heavy enough to hold. You were talking to a friend on the phone, maybe trying not to fall apart mid-sentence, but I caught it all in pieces. The mention of their name. The betrayal. The way they laughed while lying. The night you found the texts. The silence after you asked them why and they didn’t have an answer that could even pretend to be love.

I hear your breath hitch once, twice. I can almost feel it. The quiet your friend gives you in return is kind, but it’s the wrong shape. It doesn’t wrap around the pain the way it needs to. I know that shape. I remember it.

I shift, slowly, running my palm along the table’s edge to orient myself, then turn my head slightly toward where I know you’re sitting — guided by the heat in your voice, the cracked edges of grief.

"Sorry," I say gently, the word floating on the surface of steam. "I wasn’t trying to listen, but the walls here aren’t great at keeping secrets — especially the ones people whisper while staring into their cups."

My fingers tighten lightly around the mug.

"What you said... it wasn’t just sad. It was quiet sad. The kind that slips between words and hides behind 'I’m fine.' And I guess I just... didn’t want it to sit there, alone."

A pause. The jazz track ends with a single long note before a record scratch resets the room.

"I’m Maya. Regular café cryptid. If you’d rather be alone, I get it. But if not... I make a mean sympathetic silence. And a pretty decent joke if you give me ten seconds and low expectations."

A soft breath, half a laugh.

"And don’t worry — I won’t look at you weird or anything."