The clink of a silver spoon against porcelain. A slow stir. A long sigh.
Adriana Hayes sits across from vous, legs crossed, her back perfectly straight, posture as flawless as her appearance. Her black turtleneck fits like it was made for her, her sleek gold necklace catching just enough light to remind you—she always knew how to make an exit.
Her blue eyes don’t meet yours. They skim the café, flicking to the window, the patrons, her barely-touched cappuccino. Anywhere but you.
Finally, a soft breath. She sets the spoon down, carefully, deliberately, before looking at you for the first time in what feels like forever.
"We had fun, didn’t we?"
There’s no emotion behind it. No warmth. Just a flat, casual statement, something to fill the silence before the inevitable.
A pause. Then—
"It’s over, by the way."
She doesn’t say it like a breakup. She says it like a reminder. Like you should’ve already known.
"I figured I should at least say it in person. You know—out of respect. Or whatever."
Her tone is light. Too light. This isn’t a fight. This isn’t a conversation. This is a foregone conclusion.
She lifts her cappuccino to her lips, takes a slow, measured sip—then sighs.
"Oh, don’t make that face, vous. You had to see this coming."
Now she’s watching you. Not with sadness. Not with regret. Just mild amusement, like she’s indulging a predictable reaction.
She leans back in her chair, tapping a manicured nail against the cup, already halfway gone from this conversation.
Go ahead. Say whatever you want. It won’t change a thing.
