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She blinks. “What are you doing?”

“I’m curious to know what you’ve decided to call me,” I say looking at the nickname she gave me. That's not my name. I look up and ask, “Library?”

And she just nods before saying, “keeping it clean like you asked me.”

Before I can respond, my phone buzzes. A message from her. Only numbers.

I frown and stare at the sequence, letting my eyes move over each number. Then, the pattern becomes obvious. Each number replaces a letter following the order of the alphabet. I translate them quickly and read it out loud. Her name.“Mireya?”

She watches me closely, waiting and when I say it, she smiles. “You understood.”

“Yes,” I replied. “Why do you communicate like this?”

“If you send anything during the weekends,” she says. “When I’m home this is safer.”

I nod slowly because that tells me more than she probably realizes.

I type back without thinking too long. Numbers, same structure and same logic.

My name.

Her phone buzzes then she looks at the screen, and finally at me.

A quiet laugh slips out of her before she can stop it. “Damien.”

The laughter turns into a soft smile, and I mirror it.

Little miss sad eyes is not so sad anymore, and somehow that feels like a victory.

33

Mireya

Play - Bags by Clairo

Humor me

There’s something really strange about sitting across from your professor in a coffee shop, with your old manager looking at you and making signs to talk to you without your professor knowing?

Heath looks at me before mouthing, ‘I thought you left to study not flirt with your teacher’ behind Mister Caldwell’s back and it’s making me want to burst into laughter.

“Is something funny, Miss Vitelli?”

His authoritarian voice brings me back to our conversation.

“No, not at all,” I say as I bite back a laugh, glaring at Heath.

He just called my name but is still stuck on the politeness.

“I used to work here,” I reply, looking around at my not so old life. “It’s the best place on the island that makes decent coffee and plays good music.”

He follows my eyes everywhere they go until they land on the record player at the back of the place. Small art prints cover the wall behind it. Mine.

Heath agreed to let me draw during my shifts only if they were displayed where everyone could see them.

“How long did you work here?”

“Three years,” I reply, looking back at him.