the bell chimed softly as he pushed the door open, the familiar scent of coffee and baked goods welcoming him in like an old friend. the same sound, the same smell, the same cafe — it never changed.

the corner table near the window was vacant, as it had been every sunday at four-thirty in the afternoon. he made his way to the counter, not even looking at the menu as he had already made up his mind.

"good afternoon!" the barista greeted him from behind the counter. "the usual, sir?"

he nodded once, taking his wallet out of his pocket.

"one earl grey tea and one latte with strawberry shortcake for kei." the barista said with a gentle smile, as if she understood the routine, but not the weight behind it.

he shrugged off his jacket, feeling the october chill cling to him for a moment longer before he settled into the seat opposite the one she had always taken. his mind drifted back to the sundays they had spent together at that very spot.

she loved the cafe's corner table by the window. she said it was perfectly bright and warm, as if the cafe's corner was reserved for only the two of them; yet to him, the walls felt dim and cold. it was probably due to the autumn chill. after all, it's been four years since she last described the place.

across from him, there's no humming, no soft laughter, no teasing remark about how he still shows up.

but he remembers.

he remembers her voice. the way her fingers curled around the edge of the menu. the way she'd sneak the last bite of cake and pretend like she deserved it more than he did. the way she'd lean into the quiet and make it feel like the world was still.

the tea arrived first. earl grey, fragrant and warm, the steam swirling in delicate circles from the porcelain cup. then came the latte, its creamy surface adorned with a heart-shaped foam that would always make a mess on her upper lip, and last, the strawberry shortcake.

he glanced at the small plate, the vibrant red of the strawberries almost mocking in their brightness.

he took the first bite, like he always did. he then took a small sip of the tea, savoring the bittersweet taste and letting it settle on his tongue like an old memory.

with careful precision, he then pushed the latte across the table to where she sat, the movement slow and deliberate. it stopped right in front of her, where it always did.

his eyes lingered there for a moment, waiting to see her reach for the cup and take a sip, the way she used to, while looking at him with that soft smile that always left him feeling both annoyed and at ease.

but she didn't. the latte remained untouched.

he picked up his fork, cutting through the shortcake with a familiar motion, and paused as the tip of the fork hovered in the air.

his hand lowered, the fork coming to rest on the edge of the plate.

it was their tradition, after all. the last bite was always hers.

he didn't have the heart to finish it. not today.

not any sunday, really.

he closes his eyes and lets her memory fill the space.

it had been a sunday, too — the one that didn't go as planned.

practice had gone long. he texted her to wait, said he'd meet her after. but she didn't. instead, she left early — said she'd meet him halfway. she had wanted to surprise him.

on her way, she stopped by a small shop near the train station to pick up something silly — a little gift, something she saw earlier that week and said reminded her of him.

wrong place. wrong time.

a fight broke out nearby. she wasn't even the target. she was just... there.

the phone call came while he was changing his shoes, and the rest of the day unraveled like thread from a sweater — quietly, all at once.

still, he goes to the café every sunday.

people stopped asking why he always sat alone.

some, especially the newer staff, never questioned it. but every so often, someone would pass his table and glance at the untouched latte, the second set of utensils, and wonder.

and tsukishima — if he ever noticed — never said a word.

some days, he lets himself imagine she's just running late. that she'll walk in any minute with an apology on her lips and a story in her hands. that this is just one of those sundays.

but she doesn't come.

in fact, she hasn't come for about four years now.

still, he orders for two. sits for two. waits for two.

all because this was their place, their time, their sundays.

and if he closes his eyes long enough, he can still hear her laughter floating between the clinking of mugs and the shuffle of chairs. he can still feel the echo of her hand in his, still see her sitting across from him, bathed in golden light.

his phone buzzed on the table, breaking the silence. he glanced at the screen. koganegawa had texted, asking if he wanted to show up earlier than usual for extra practice, but tsukishima didn't reply. not yet. not while he was here.

outside, the air was crisp, autumn's chill ready to bite at his skin, but it was nothing compared to the cold that had settled in his chest.

"you should go," she said. "see you next sunday?"

he adjusted his glasses and stood up slowly. and then, as he did every week, he leaned down to the chair opposite his, where no one sat, and whispered, "goodbye."

the bell chimed again as he left, the sound ringing out behind him. a reminder that time kept moving even when memories stayed frozen.

he slipped his hands into his pockets as he walked away from the cafe, leaving behind the tea, the latte, the shortcake — and the ghost of a sunday that never really ended.

           
© cheeseecakeee -- 10 . 21 . 24 ꒱