IVYThe first bite of the sandwich tasted like hope.We sat at a tiny metal table outside the sandwich shop, sun finally breaking through the morning clouds, warming the back of my neck. Noah was across from me, elbows on the table, watching me like I might vanish if he looked away. I tore off a piece of the bread—crisp crust, soft inside—and chewed slowly. The bread was still warm, the cheese melted just right, the tomato bright and sharp. Simple. Good. Normal.I looked up.Caught Noah smiling at me.Small.Soft.The kind of smile that made my chest ache in the best way.“You’re eating,” he said quietly.I nodded.“Feels weird,” I admitted. “Feels… good.”He reached across the table.Covered my hand with his.His palm was warm.“I’m glad,” he said.We ate in comfortable silence for a while.The street was waking up—cars passing, a delivery truck idling, someone walking a dog that kept stopping to sniff every pole. Normal sounds. Normal life.I felt Noah’s thumb brush over my knuckle
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