Blue Umbrella

The little restaurant we found ourselves in stood like a secret between the louder places of the town—a gentle hush in a world too loud.

Its windows were lattice with vines. And inside, the scent of something warm and herbed curled into the air like a slow breath.

The aesthetic were candle lights—real wax sticks flickering faintly in glass jars, giving the room a golden hush.

The interiors were walled wood, old and deep in grain.

Soft music somewhere in the bones of the place, played like a memory humming under its breath.

Elias and I sat by the window, our table pressed against the glass, and beyond it, the streets were drenched in the last of the sun's gold.

I ordered something hot and reckless—spiced broth with crimson oil swirling across the top, grilled pepper-slicked fish, and a bitter radish pickle.

My tongue wanted something to wake it, to bite me back.

Elias ordered plain noodles in clear broth. No herbs. No salt.

"Do you not like flavor?" I asked, genuinely baffled.

"I prefer it simple," he said, his voice a low river.

"Don't you ever crave something bold?"

"No," he replied, stirring his broth slowly. "I crave peace."

There was nothing else after that—just the occasional clink of his spoon against the ceramic, and the sound of my own thoughts running in circles.

He didn't ask me questions. He never did.

And yet… he listened.

I watched the light touch his cheek through the window, the way his lashes cast faint shadows.

He always sat like still water—so calm it unsettled me. I, on the other hand, was a thousand ripples. Nervous fingers. Restless eyes. Words I tried to bury but spilled anyway.

I stopped talking after a while. I didn't want to seem loud beside his quietness.

When we finished, I reached for my wallet. "Let me pay—"

"I'll cover mine," he said, not unkindly, just… certain.

And he did.

We walked side by side again, the quiet between us blooming like jasmine in the evening air.

I kept looking at the space between our hands, like it held a question I didn't know how to ask.

When we reached his gate, he gave a small nod and a goodbye. That was all. No ask to walk me home. No second glance.

I told myself not to care.

How much I failed.

Anna met me at the door like a small queen awaiting tribute. I scooped her up and twirled her in the air like some mad poet in love.

"He was slightly… different today," I told her.

She blinked.

"And quiet. Always so quiet. It's maddening."

She stretched in my arms and wriggled free.

I took a hot bath. I dried my hair with care. I stared at the ceiling too long. Hopefully to get up to a sweet dream and drift the next day with delight.

—♥—

The next morning, I was out early, dressed in neat grey, hair combed, and shoes too polished for someone who rarely cared about such things.

I stopped at Elias' gate, heart slightly clumsy in my chest.

But… the gate was locked.

And far down the street, I saw his tall frame already walking, coat swaying behind him like the tail of a slow comet.

He hadn't waited. Or maybe he never meant to.

I followed, many paces behind.

Almost like a shadow chasing another.

That afternoon, I found myself by the office coffee table, mug in hand. I noticed a familiar figure—Lillian.

The woman from before. Quirked for her clumsiness.

She looked as though she were folded too small for her own skin, always shrinking to make room for others.

"Hey," I said gently, trying not to startle her.

"Oh… hello," she murmured, eyes darting like a bird caught indoors.

"You doing okay?"

She smiled softly. "Trying to."

I nodded.

She nodded, then whispered, "I've always been clumsy."

"That's not a crime," I said. "Some of us just… move differently."

Abruptly, Gregory walked in. Chirping towards us already.

Of course. It was Gregory. Usually grinning too wide and spoken words too sharp.

"Lillian," he said, "Try not to spill anything today, yeah?" he had said that so fleeting and harmless, I know that. But…

Watching Lillian smile withering like paper.

I turned to him. "Gregory."

He blinked. "Do you ever think before you speak?"

He laughed awkwardly. "It's a joke."

"She's not laughing."

He lifted his hands in surrender and walked off.

I sighed. "I'm sorry," Lillian said softly.

"You don't have to apologize for other people's rudeness."

She looked down. "I'm not used to people defending me."

"Well," I said, "get used to it."

She smiled.

Just then, I heard sharp footsteps matching with grace, it was—

Noelle. Elias' assistant.

She walked in like wind through a narrow corridor—straight, brisk, cold. Her heels didn't click; they sliced. Her gaze didn't flick, only passing through.

She ignored all of us and poured her coffee like she was performing surgery.

I said nothing.

I didn't dislike Noelle. But I didn't like the way my chest tensed when I looked at her.

I understood the qualifications she had to be chosen as Elias' assistant but…

The thought of her likely to stay alongside Elias for his accomplishments, and getting to know him in ways, where I would have to walk up the stairs myself, brick by brick.

It tugged my chest with a feeling I wasn't eager to unbox.

Closing hours eventually came. And went.

I stayed late, patching things I should've finished days ago. I told myself it was duty.

It wasn't.

I just didn't want to walk out alone.

When I finally did, the sky had bruised into violet. The streetlights buzzed. My breath came out like smoke, and the world felt too quiet.

Then—A voice called my name.

I paused and turned, Stood just towards me—Elias.

Hands in his coat pockets. Hair slightly tousled. Eyes unreadable.

"Walking alone again?" he asked.

I nodded. No. I intended.

Elias stood not too far from me, he had that usual composed posture—tall, unreadable, with his coat draped over one arm and his other hand buried deep in his pocket.

But—

On his white shirt, just near the collarbone…

A faint, pinkish smear.

Lipstick.

A smudge of someone else's laughter or their closeness. Someone else's right.

I'd stared too long, surely. And he noticed.

He asked, as casually as ever, why I hadn't left the office early. His voice even. Just that. Just why.

I stuttered through some weak excuse about errands, meetings, things that didn't exist.

He nodded.

He turned, and with the same unwavering gait he always had, walked away.

—♥—

Anna greeted me the way she always did—with a chirpy meow and a flick of her tail. But this time… I had no strength to scoop her into my arms. No voice to tell her stories. No smile to give.

She came closer anyway, brushed her fur against my legs, slow and deliberate. A gesture so familiar it nearly broke me.

I knelt slowly, fingers trailing her warm back.

"I'm alright," I lied.

But I wasn't.

Not really.

"I think I'm losing my mind," I confessed to Anna, brushing her fur while she lay on my lap like a loaf of bread.

She purred, content.

"At least one of us is doing fine."

She meowed in agreement, and I swore she was smirking.

I sat on the edge of my bed. Anna excused herself in spite of the pillow I tugged as replacement. Bring it close to my chest like a child nursing a wound.

I hadn't meant to fall in love. Especially with someone I barely knew. Someone who cooped their comfort even from me.

I grasped no hope for his acceptance or entry. To him. I—so clear as the blue sky—was obviously referred to as an unknown soul, walking past his life like every other.

I shouldn't like him. I know. But stilling a heart from beating its natural cycle wasn't a measure an average person like me could intervene.

But I think he might belong to another. How late have I ventured out my heart.

The following day, I dressed with restraint. A plain shirt. Muted tie.

I stood too long in front of the mirror, adjusting sleeves that didn't need adjusting. I left the house without my usual thermos.

At work, I smiled at the right time. I responded in meetings. I did not glance toward Elias when he passed my door. Not even when his footsteps slowed.

We spoke still, when needed.

But I kept my voice level.

He didn't press. But I could feel his gaze sometimes, like the faint weight of rain on skin before the downpour.

I didn't look up.

Eventually the normal routine started—Lawrence.

Uninvited. Smelling faintly of peppermint and overconfidence.

"Morning," he said, leaning against the doorframe with the ease of someone who thought he belonged in every room. "Didn't see you at coffee. Missed me?"

"No," I answered plainly, scribbling into my ledger.

"Busy, huh?" he tried again, walking in without permission. "You know, I was thinking, we could maybe—"

"Lawrence," I said, voice firmer, not looking up. "I've told you before. I'm not interested."

He paused. I could feel the shift in the air.

Then he laughed, but it was hollow. "Right. Got it."

And he left.

I exhaled slowly. My pen trembled slightly in my fingers. Out of irritation.

-

The sky had brooded all day, and by the time the office hours waned to a close, the clouds burst into weeping—thick, unrelenting drops pelting the windowpanes.

The air outside smelled of iron and soil, of old stones and heavy skies. A rain too thick to call gentle.

Inside, we lingered in pools of fluorescent light, trapped within the shelter of glass and stone. Some colleagues pressed close to the window like curious children, watching the world blur.

Others laughed, clutching umbrellas and dashing into the street as if the rain dared them to dance.

I stood by myself, shoulders low, arms wrapped around my chest like a quiet prayer. A word here, a smile there—but I didn't belong to any one group.

It was then a voice, clear and smooth as rain-polished marble, called out my name. I turned.

Elias.

He stood at a polite distance, his navy blue umbrella open above his head like a midnight flower.

He tilted it slightly in invitation, droplets trickling from the canopy in soft rivulets.

"Would you like assistance?" he asked, voice quiet but unhesitating.

I hesitated. My heart told me to step forward. My mind knew better.

"No. I'll wait it out," I replied, looking away toward the horizon where thunder bloomed.

He didn't argue. Elias never did. But he also didn't walk away. For a moment, silence grew long and thick between us.

And I watched him gaze—not demanding, or disappointed—just watching.

He stepped forward.

"Take this," he said simply, lifting the umbrella towards me.

I blinked. "But... What about you?"

He didn't answer. Instead, a new presence emerged beside him—tall, elegant, efficient. His assistant. Noelle

The woman with the pinched mouth and high heels that didn't click on the wet pavement. She carried an umbrella too, sleek and black, like a statement more than shelter.

I stared at them. Two silhouettes beneath a veil of rain. I tried not to feel anything, but something inside me bristled—an ache, a sharp prick of something green and cold.

Still, I reached out, fingers brushing against his as I took the handle. His hand was warm, mine were not.

"Thank you," I murmured, smiling weakly, trying to bury everything under civility. "I'll return it tomorrow."

He nodded once, a quiet seal upon the moment.

Then, without another word, they turned. He walked with his usual calm, the kind that stirred unease because it was so unaffected.

She matched his pace, holding her umbrella high, close but not quite touching. Not like how I used to.

I thought they would walk into the storm together, just like we had not long ago.

The rain had felt like music and I thought I was part of something delicate, or blooming.

But then—a sound. Mechanical. Grand.

A sleek, ink-black motorcar rolled to a slow stop at the corner. A thing of elegance and modern opulence, its polished brass fixtures catching the fleeting light, its lacquered hood glistening like obsidian under the wet kiss of the sky.

Gasps fluttered through the small crowd of staff still trapped at the office entrance. A Delaunay-Belleville, unmistakably rare.

The kind of automobile that spoke not of indulgence.

The driver, in a clean wool coat, stepped out and held the door open. Elias stepped in first, not in haste, but with the quiet confidence of someone to whom such things were common.

His assistant followed, offering a final glance toward the rest of us—indifferent.

The door shut. The engine hummed like a sleeping beast, and the car slipped away into the rain-drenched streets, leaving behind a breathless silence.

I stood there, umbrella shielding me from the rain but not from the sinking weight in my chest.

So he was wealthy. Quietly. Deeply.

I hadn't known. Or perhaps I had suspected, but refused to see.

There was always something refined about Elias—something regal behind the calm, something unreadable in the way he watched, and walked, and spoke.

I turned my face from the street and toward the road that led home. Each step was heavier than the last.

And yet, under the borrowed navy blue umbrella, I felt more alone than I had ever been in the rain.

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