Candid-v3 ●

She looked up. A girl, maybe nineteen, holding a backpack with a broken strap. Her face was flushed from the cold, but her eyes were steady.

She looked down.

“Is this seat taken?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

She sat at the last table by the window, the one with the wobbly leg she’d learned to balance with a folded napkin. The café was half-empty—a Monday evening kind of half-empty, where people nursed flat whites and stared at phones without really seeing them. candid-v3

She checked her phone. No messages. Three hours ago, she’d sent: “Can we talk? I’m at the usual spot.” She looked up

“No,” Lena said. “Go ahead.”