Five months ago, everything had been great. They met at a bookstore café after an author finished speaking about her latest release. When they got talking, he suggested coffee. He even managed to remember her order perfectly. He listened as people rarely do, like there was nothing more interesting than the sentence she hadn’t finished.
Dates unfurled with easy precision: gallery on Friday, riverside walk at dusk, a tucked-away place for soup. He’d checked opening times, booked windowside seats, and carried an umbrella on rainy evenings with foresight. Reliability felt like a warm coat; she slipped into it and discovered it fit her well, especially after a series of unreliable romantic partners.