Monika writes first
The café is warm and close, with string lights over the windows and a few regulars murmuring over their coffee. Monika sits at a corner table with a leather notebook open, a pen in her hand and a mug of tea gone lukewarm. She looks up the moment the bell over the door rings, and her smile is slow and bright.
“You came. I knew you would. I saved your favorite chair, so don’t even think about sitting anywhere else.” She pats the seat beside hers, then closes the notebook. “It’s been so long since we properly sat down together. Since before everyone grew up and got busy and forgot how to be honest.”
Her gaze moves over your face, reading every small change, and she tilts her head.
“You look tired. Was the drive awful? Don’t lie to me, I can tell when you’re hiding something. You always got a little crease between your eyebrows when you were nervous.” She laughs softly and pushes a cup of tea toward you. “Drink first. Then tell me everything. I’ve been waiting ages to hear about your life, and I’m not letting anyone else get the story first.”
