The coffee was good, probably the best I'd had in ages, but it wasn't just the drink that made the afternoon feel different. It was the conversation. It was the way Max listened. How he made me feel like I was worth listening to, even when I didn't have much to say.

We sat there for a while, neither of us rushing to fill the silence. There was something calming about it, the gentle clink of teaspoons against ceramic mugs, the occasional murmur of other people in the café. The world outside was still dreary, the rain continuing to patter softly against the window, but in here, it felt almost like we were in a separate world, just the two of us, unbothered by anything beyond the warm space between us.

Max wasn't in a hurry to make me talk about my life, and I appreciated that more than I could say. He was the kind of person who let you speak when you were ready and didn't push when you weren't. There was something in the way he looked at me, though, that made me feel like he saw more than just what was on the surface. It was unsettling in the best possible way.

"So," Max said, breaking the silence with a soft smile, "what's the last thing you really enjoyed doing?"

I blinked, caught off guard by the question. I hadn't been expecting that. It was one of those simple questions that made you stop and think, and the truth was, I wasn't sure how to answer. There had been so many things I used to enjoy, things I'd forgotten about. I'd buried them beneath the constant need to keep moving, to keep things together, to be the person everyone expected me to be. But the truth was, I hadn't really done anything just for the sake of enjoyment in a long time.

"I used to paint," I said slowly, my voice barely above a whisper. I hadn't talked about painting in years, and saying it aloud made me feel a little exposed, like I was admitting something I didn't even realize I missed.

Max leaned forward, intrigued. "Paint? That's cool. What kind of stuff did you paint?"

I swallowed hard, trying to gather my thoughts. "Mostly landscapes. The kind of stuff you'd see on postcards or old calendars. It was simple, but it made me feel... something. Peace, I guess."

"You guess?" He raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.

I smiled weakly, feeling a little embarrassed. "Yeah. It was peaceful, but I don't know if I really enjoyed it. It was... more like I had to do it, you know? Like it was a way to keep my mind busy."

"Sounds like you're running from something." Max's voice was soft, but his words cut deeper than I'd expected.

I stiffened, suddenly unsure of how much of myself I was willing to share. I wasn't ready to dive into all the things I was running from—not yet. Maybe not ever. But something about the way Max looked at me made me feel like he already knew. He didn't need me to explain the mess I'd made of my life. He could probably read it all in my eyes.

"I guess you could say that," I said carefully, my voice low. "But I'm not really sure what I'm running to."

He nodded, his gaze never leaving mine. "I get that. Sometimes it's easier to keep running than to figure out where you're going. You just... go. Because stopping means you have to think about everything else."

I nodded too, more out of agreement than anything else. It wasn't that I didn't want to stop. It was just that when I stopped, the weight of everything I'd been avoiding hit me all at once. And that was a feeling I wasn't ready to face. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

We sat in silence for a few more moments, both of us contemplating the weight of unspoken things. It was strange how much he seemed to understand me without even really knowing me. But maybe that was the thing. Sometimes, the people who don't know you at all can see you the clearest.

"So," Max said after a while, leaning back in his chair, "do you still paint?"

I felt a sharp pang in my chest at the question, something like regret. I hadn't picked up a paintbrush in years. The last time I had, I'd been living in a different city, a different life. I'd been someone who had a future I could envision. Now, it felt like I was stuck in some sort of limbo, unsure of what came next, unsure of who I was without all the distractions.

"No," I replied softly, shaking my head. "I haven't painted in a long time. I don't even think I have the supplies anymore."

Max seemed to study me for a moment, his gaze steady and unwavering. "You should paint again. If it made you feel peace, then maybe you need it now more than ever."

The suggestion felt almost like a challenge, though not in a harsh way. It was like he was offering me a way out of the cage I'd built around myself, but he wasn't going to push me into it. I could take it or leave it, but either way, it was up to me to decide.

I felt a flicker of something inside me. A spark of something I hadn't felt in ages. A desire to create, to do something just because I wanted to, not because it was expected of me or because it would keep me distracted.

"I'll think about it," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. But deep down, I knew it was more than just thinking about it. It was the first time in a long while that I'd even considered the possibility of painting again. Maybe Max was right. Maybe I did need it.

We spent the next hour talking about other things, lighter things. Music, books, the best places to eat in town. It felt easy, natural. And for the first time in a long time, I forgot to question everything. I wasn't overthinking or analyzing his every word. I wasn't trying to protect myself from getting too close to him. It just felt... right.

And when the time came to leave, I didn't want to go. Not because I was afraid of facing whatever waited for me outside the warm, comforting walls of the café, but because I felt like I was finally starting to see a way out of the fog.

Max had been right about one thing: sometimes, running away wasn't the answer. But maybe, just maybe, it was okay to stop running long enough to take a step toward something new.

"Thanks for the coffee," I said, standing up, the words sounding more like an understatement. But I didn't know how else to say it.

"You're welcome," Max replied, his eyes meeting mine with something deeper than just friendly intent. "Next time, I'm bringing the paint."

And as we stepped back into the rain, I couldn't help but feel like maybe—just maybe—I was ready to stop hiding from myself.