Zeyon's POV
It’s been five days.
Five.
Don’t ask me why I’m counting. I didn’t even mean to. My brain just does this thing where it remembers things it shouldn’t. Like how the bell at the front door rings a little slower when it’s raining. Or how she smelled like dusty books and citrus candy.
She didn’t come back.
And I don’t know why my heart feels like it’s playing a drum solo every time that stupid door creaks open, and it’s not her. It’s just some old lady ordering raisin bread like I don’t have a heartbreak playlist playing inside me.
I keep baking more than usual. The display looks like it’s ready for a festival or something, not a normal weekday. I even made a batch of lemon cookies. I hate lemon cookies. She said they were her favorite on the second night she came.
“Lemons are like… sad fruit that got tired of pretending to be sweet,” she said with a tired smile, hugging that weird notebook like it’s her emotional support pet.
I remember that.
I remember her.
And I hate that I remember.
“Zey, stop glaring at the dough, it’s already scared,” Jessa says from behind me, leaning on the counter like she owns the place. She’s wearing one of my hoodies again—without asking, as usual. Her hair’s in this big messy bun like a cinnamon roll.
“I’m not glaring.”
“You’re definitely glaring,” she says, stealing a frog cookie. “Did lemon girl ghost you or what?”
I sigh. “She’s not lemon girl.”
“Ohhh. She’s lemon girl now. I see. We’ve reached the nickname phase of heartbreak.”
“I’m not heartbroken.”
“Sure.”
“I’m not.”
“Okay, mister-not-heartbroken, then why did you burn the apple turnovers because you were staring at the notebook she left?”
I freeze.
She noticed.
“You touched it?”
“I didn’t read it, relax. I just moved it off the hot plate before it caught fire. You really should stop putting important things near ovens, by the way.”
I say nothing. The notebook’s still there, behind the register, exactly where Allison left it. I thought about opening it. Like really thought about it. But then my fingers felt weird and my chest got all tight and I felt like—if I read even one word—I’d explode or something.
“Why don’t you just message her?” Jessa shrugs, nibbling the frog’s leg like a savage. “You had her number, right?”
I shake my head. “She never gave it.”
I lied.
Jessa chokes on the cookie. “Wait—she never gave you her number? Bro. You let a mysterious book-hugging girl walk into your bakery, make your entire soul swirl, and you didn’t even get her number?”
“It wasn’t like that!”
“It so was like that.”
I turn away and start kneading dough like it owes me money.
It was like that.
She came here every night for a week. Sat by the same corner. Ordered the same thing, apple bread and hot chocolate with too much whipped cream. She’d talk about random things. Some nights she’d be quiet and just write in her notebook. Some nights she’d say the funniest things like, “Do cats have opinions about bread?” and I’d laugh harder than I should’ve.
I started looking forward to 8PM like it was some secret holiday.
Then she stopped coming.
No message. No goodbye. Just vanished like she was never real to begin with.
I hated how quiet the place felt after that.
Even the walls started to feel bored.
Even my frogs looked sad.
“You’re seriously gonna mope forever?” Jessa asked again, poking my cheek with a chopstick she pulled out of nowhere.
“I’m not moping.”
“You’re baking twelve batches of chocolate bread. That’s certified moping behavior.”
“It’s called preparation.”
“For what? A birthday party for your imaginary girlfriend?”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Okay, okay,” Jessa holds up her hands like she’s scared of catching feelings. “But if she’s not your girlfriend, then why are you making chocolate frogs and lemon cookies and staring at the door like a sad puppy waiting for its owner to come back from war?”
I throw a towel at her.
She dodges, laughing, then leans her chin on the counter. “You like her, don’t you?”
I pause.
My hands are covered in flour.
My heart is somewhere else.
“…I think I miss her,” I whisper, not looking at her. “Like I’m supposed to. Like I’ve missed her before.”
Jessa’s quiet. For once.
Then she says, softly, “That’s poetic and kinda stupid.”
I smile a little.
“Do you think she’ll come back?” I ask.
“Maybe. Or maybe you’ll have to go find her.”
“I don’t even know where to start.”
“Then maybe start with what you do know,” she says, walking to the register and pointing at the notebook. “Whatever’s in here might matter.”
I blink at it.
Still closed.
Still untouched.
Still hers.
I nod slowly.
“Not yet,” I say. “But maybe soon.”