Our Old Manager.

The Last Thread.

The apartment was quieter than usual.

Not uncomfortable. Just still. The television played softly in the background, though neither of them paid much attention to it. Daniela sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by open textbooks and loose sheets of paper. Every now and then she'd sigh dramatically before scribbling something down, only to cross it out a few seconds later.

Y/N watched from the kitchen, unable to hide a small smile. "You've sighed five times in less than three minutes." Daniela didn't even look up. "I'm negotiating with my assignment."

"I don't think assignments negotiate."

"They do if you're desperate enough."

Y/N laughed under her breath, pouring two mugs of tea. "How's it going?" Daniela cried out next, "It currently hates me."

"I figured."

Daniela finally looked over, accepting the mug with a grateful smile. "Thank you." Y/N winked, "You're welcome."

For a while, neither of them spoke. The apartment settled into its familiar rhythm.

Pages turning.

Tea cooling.

The occasional muttered complaint from Daniela whenever a question refused to make sense. It was peaceful, comfortable so.

Y/N hadn't realised how much she'd started looking forward to evenings like this.

Later, after Daniela disappeared into the bathroom for a shower, Y/N found herself alone in the living room. Her gaze drifted toward the café inventory book resting on the coffee table. She'd brought it home, but she hadn't opened it again.

Not since Jennie left.

She stared at it for several seconds, then slowly reached for it. The cover felt exactly the same. It was worn. Soft around the edges. Years of use pressed into every crease.

Y/N opened to the first few pages. Her own handwriting greeted her.

Messy inventory counts.

Coffee bean deliveries.

Orders she'd completely forgotten making.

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. "I used to be terrible at keeping this organised." She turned another page. Then another.

One more time to another, then paused. She saw something tucked neatly between two pages was a faded receipt.

She frowned. The paper was old enough that the ink had begun to fade.

coffee beans.

milks.

paper cups.

She remembered that order. It had been one of the café's first large deliveries. She smiled without meaning to.

On the back of the receipt, someone had written in blue pen.

stop pretending crackers count as lunch.

Y/N blinked, then laughed quietly. "You were impossible."

Her thumb brushed over the handwriting.

Jennie.

Of course it was Jennie.

Another small note tucked into the margin.

inventory tomorrow. don't stay until 2 a.m. again.

Another.

drink water. coffee doesn't count.

Y/N let out a slow breath. They weren't love letters. They weren't dramatic confessions. They were ordinary. Little reminders from someone who had noticed the smallest things. And somehow, those hurt the most.