Miles' POV
Has he asked me out?
The thought spun around in my head as I stood there holding the small piece of paper with the café address. My heart raced, filled with uncertainty. Why did he want to meet me? Was this going to be the moment he told me he hated me? That we couldn't be friends anymore?
I couldn't shake the unease building inside me, thinking of all the possible outcomes. Maybe he was calling me there just to scold me for the stupid joke I made, to cut ties with me for good. It was the worst feeling, imagining him looking at me with disappointment, the look I feared more than anything.
As much as I dreaded it, I knew I had to go. I couldn't leave things hanging between us like this. Whatever he wanted to say, I needed to hear it, even if it broke me.
That evening, I walked into the café, my stomach twisting into knots. The familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, but it did little to calm my nerves. I glanced around until my eyes landed on him, sitting at the corner table.
He was dressed in all black, looking effortlessly handsome as always. The sight of him made my heart skip a beat, and a bitter thought crossed my mind. Why did he have to look so good, especially if he was about to reject me?
I approached the table and sat down across from him, my pulse pounding in my ears. He glanced up, his expression unreadable, and asked what I wanted to eat.
Eat? How could I even think about eating at a time like this?
"I think we should talk first," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "We can decide about eating later."
He nodded, his gaze steady but distant. The way he looked at me made me feel small, like I had somehow let him down without even knowing it. I could feel the weight of the silence pressing down on us, and I didn't know where to begin. My mind raced for words, something that would explain everything, but all I could manage was a shaky, "I'm sorry."
I wanted to explain, to tell him it was just a stupid joke, a spur-of-the-moment mistake. But the moment I saw his eyes harden, I knew it was too late. His expression shifted—anger, frustration, hurt—all flickering in the depths of his gaze. He didn't say a word. Instead, he stood up, pushing his chair back with a harsh scrape against the floor.
"Wait—" I tried, but he didn't listen.
Without a single word, he turned and left the café, leaving me sitting there in a mess of guilt and regret. For a split second, I just sat there, frozen in place. But then, the panic set in. I couldn't let him go like that. Not without at least trying to fix things.
I jumped up and rushed after him, my heart pounding even louder now. He hadn't gone far—he was just a few steps ahead of me, but it felt like miles. I ran faster, my feet barely touching the ground as I caught up to him and grabbed his hand.
He spun around, his face full of frustration. "I don't want to talk to you," he snapped, his voice low but sharp.
I didn't let go of his hand. I couldn't. "I don't want to talk to you either," I replied, my voice trembling with emotion. "But I need to say this. Let's end it here."
He looked at me, his eyes narrowing, as if trying to figure out if I was serious. I felt my heart breaking into pieces as I said those words, but I forced myself to hold it together.
"I'm sorry," I whispered again, the words falling from my lips like a desperate plea.
I let go of his hand then, taking a step back, feeling the cold evening air wrap around me. Without waiting for his response, I turned and walked away, each step heavier than the last. My chest ached, the pain almost unbearable, but I knew there was nothing else I could do.