Almost Love, Then Everything - Chapter 11: Chapter 11
You are reading Almost Love, Then Everything, Chapter 11: Chapter 11. Read more chapters of Almost Love, Then Everything.
It started with coffee.
Leah always drank hers black—no sugar, no cream, just heat and strength, like armor for the day ahead. Jade, on the other hand, had a ritual: two teaspoons of sugar, a dash of milk, and always, always in her chipped yellow mug that had a tiny drawing of a bear hugging a sunflower.
Leah had seen the mug a hundred times, but never noticed it until that morning.
Jade had left it on the counter, steam curling gently into the air. The bear’s little painted eyes smiled up through the mist. Leah stared at it a second longer than usual, her fingers hovering over the kettle.
It hit her all at once—how Jade hummed under her breath when she was focused, how she tapped her nails softly against glass when she was lost in thought. How she always tucked her hair behind her ear when she laughed.
Leah’s fingers curled into a fist.
She shouldn’t have been looking. Shouldn’t have been noticing. But she was.
At the table, Jade was reading something on her phone, brow furrowed in quiet concentration. Leah sat across from her and slid the mug over carefully, without a word. Jade blinked, then looked up.
“Oh. Thanks,” she said, soft and surprised.
Leah nodded. She took a sip of her own coffee, wincing slightly at the bitterness.
“Too strong?” Jade asked.
“Always,” Leah replied. A corner of Jade’s mouth lifted into a smile, small and warm.
Silence fell between them—but not the awkward kind. It was a soft stillness, the kind that let you breathe a little slower, listen a little closer.
The sun filtered through the window, catching the edge of Jade’s hair like a halo. Leah looked away before she stared.
Later that day, they walked to the bookstore together. It wasn’t planned—it just sort of happened. Jade wanted to pick something up, and Leah, somehow, didn’t want to say no.
They didn’t talk much on the way. Just the sound of their footsteps on pavement, the occasional whisper of wind through the leaves.
Jade reached for a book on the top shelf and struggled for a second, tiptoeing with a soft grunt. Without thinking, Leah stepped behind her and pulled it down easily, handing it over.
“Thanks,” Jade said again.
This time, Leah met her gaze.
Her fingers brushed Jade’s for half a second too long.
Tiny things.
Insignificant moments that somehow stayed with her long after they passed.
That evening, as Leah lay in bed, her thoughts drifted back to Jade’s mug, to the sound of her humming, to the warmth of that look in her eyes.
She didn’t know when she started noticing.
But now that she had—she couldn’t seem to stop.
Leah always drank hers black—no sugar, no cream, just heat and strength, like armor for the day ahead. Jade, on the other hand, had a ritual: two teaspoons of sugar, a dash of milk, and always, always in her chipped yellow mug that had a tiny drawing of a bear hugging a sunflower.
Leah had seen the mug a hundred times, but never noticed it until that morning.
Jade had left it on the counter, steam curling gently into the air. The bear’s little painted eyes smiled up through the mist. Leah stared at it a second longer than usual, her fingers hovering over the kettle.
It hit her all at once—how Jade hummed under her breath when she was focused, how she tapped her nails softly against glass when she was lost in thought. How she always tucked her hair behind her ear when she laughed.
Leah’s fingers curled into a fist.
She shouldn’t have been looking. Shouldn’t have been noticing. But she was.
At the table, Jade was reading something on her phone, brow furrowed in quiet concentration. Leah sat across from her and slid the mug over carefully, without a word. Jade blinked, then looked up.
“Oh. Thanks,” she said, soft and surprised.
Leah nodded. She took a sip of her own coffee, wincing slightly at the bitterness.
“Too strong?” Jade asked.
“Always,” Leah replied. A corner of Jade’s mouth lifted into a smile, small and warm.
Silence fell between them—but not the awkward kind. It was a soft stillness, the kind that let you breathe a little slower, listen a little closer.
The sun filtered through the window, catching the edge of Jade’s hair like a halo. Leah looked away before she stared.
Later that day, they walked to the bookstore together. It wasn’t planned—it just sort of happened. Jade wanted to pick something up, and Leah, somehow, didn’t want to say no.
They didn’t talk much on the way. Just the sound of their footsteps on pavement, the occasional whisper of wind through the leaves.
Jade reached for a book on the top shelf and struggled for a second, tiptoeing with a soft grunt. Without thinking, Leah stepped behind her and pulled it down easily, handing it over.
“Thanks,” Jade said again.
This time, Leah met her gaze.
Her fingers brushed Jade’s for half a second too long.
Tiny things.
Insignificant moments that somehow stayed with her long after they passed.
That evening, as Leah lay in bed, her thoughts drifted back to Jade’s mug, to the sound of her humming, to the warmth of that look in her eyes.
She didn’t know when she started noticing.
But now that she had—she couldn’t seem to stop.
End of Almost Love, Then Everything Chapter 11. Continue reading Chapter 12 or return to Almost Love, Then Everything book page.