They didn't plan to sit down. But the café was warm, and her fingers were trembling.
Adrian ordered black coffee. Annabelle ordered nothing.
She sat across from him, arms folded like a shield. Her eyes never stayed in one place. Always scanning. Watching. Guarded.
He didn't speak for a while. And she didn't ask him to.
Then finally, softly:
"You don't talk much," he said.
She raised an eyebrow. "That's bold—coming from someone who just stared at me for three weeks."
He smiled. A real one, but tired. "You noticed."
"Of course I noticed," she said. "You don't stare at someone like that unless you're either curious… or crazy."
"Or both," Adrian added.
The silence returned, but heavier this time. Not awkward. Just... full.
Annabelle broke it. "You ever love someone who made you question your own mind?"
Adrian looked up. "Once. And I never quite got it back."
She nodded slowly. "Same."She was used to lying. "I'm fine" came automatically, like breathing. But today, something cracked. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the loneliness pressing into her chest. Or maybe it was the simple fact that someone had asked.
He didn't flinch at her honesty.
Just nodded. Like he understood.
"Why do you care?" she asked, more defensively than she meant to.
"I don't know," he replied. "But I think I already do."
Annabelle blinked. Words like that—warm, earnest, uncalculated—felt foreign. Most people wanted something. Most people saw her as either a puzzle or a project. She'd learned how to disappear before anyone got too close.
But something about him felt different. Unsafe in a different way.
"I didn't ask for a rescue," she said softly.
"I'm not offering one," he replied. "Just a moment. Maybe a conversation."
She should've walked away. Said goodbye. Put her headphones in and disappeared like she always did.
But she didn't.
Instead, she said, "I don't even know your name."
"Adrian."
"I'm Annabelle."
She hated how gentle her voice sounded when she said it. Like some part of her still hoped.