Inside the Green Tea Café, the world felt momentarily quiet.

  The café’s kitchen was steeped in the scent of roasted cocoa nibs, spice, and sweet milk. The air was thick with warmth, wrapping around her shoulders like a heavy, comforting blanket.

  Juno stood at the counter, her fingers stained with cinnamon dust, carefully whisking the cocoa of the day: a velvety blend of dark chocolate, nutmeg, cinnamon, and orange zest.

  Not her personal favorite so far, but it was today’s chosen recipe from the Project 365 journal. Cocoa #9. Celia called it “Bittersweet Spell”.

  She’d scribbled it out this morning with little thought, and now, somehow, it felt prophetic: bold, bittersweet, and sharp on the tongue.

  The kitchen’s small fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting soft shadows across the steam rising from the pot. She stirred with purpose, measured and steady.

  Each motion carved away a sliver of her anxiety. The world outside could wait while she perfected this batch.

  Behind her, the bell above the café door chimed.

  The spell broke, but not harshly. The sound was familiar, warm like a fire starting in the hearth.

  “Celia!” Mark’s voice rang out, lively and theatrical as ever. “We come bearing empty cups and high expectations.”

  Juno blinked in surprise. For a moment, her brain stuttered. Why were they here? Then something clicked in her memory: a note from one of Celia’s old journals. Scrawled in slanted handwriting between Project 365’s cocoa recipes, it read:

  "A few times a month, the Cocoa Club meets at the café. I make the drinks for them. It’s tradition now. I like watching them laugh."

  Of course. This wasn’t unusual. This had happened before. She just hadn’t lived it yet.

  She turned to see the trio entering, brushing snow from their coats and scarves. Mark led the pack, his curly hair damp with melting flakes, his scarf half-hanging off one shoulder.

  Marie walked in next, wearing fingerless gloves, a galaxy-patterned beanie, and a camera strap around her neck. She gave Juno a double peace sign, grinning. “Please tell me today’s cocoa is going to knock my socks off. Because I haven’t defrosted since this morning.”

  Ian came in last, quiet and observant, pulling his gloves off with practiced calm. He gave her a gentle nod. His smile wasn’t as wide as the others, but it was a gentle one. “Is the cocoa ready yet, Celia?” he asked as he walked behind the other two, hands in his pockets.

  “You’re in luck,” Juno said, the words leaving her mouth with a smoothness that surprised even her. Stepping fully into Celia’s rhythm felt effortless today. For once, there was a strange kind of peace in the ritual, in following the recipe exactly the way Celia had written it, no more, no less.

  “Today’s cocoa’s got a little kick: nutmeg, cinnamon, and just a hint of orange zest. Project 365, entry number nine. I call it…”

  She paused, eyes glinting, and the trio leaned in like an audience waiting for the curtain to rise.

  “‘Bittersweet Spell,’” she announced, lifting her fingers and twirling them in the air.

  Mark leaned dramatically on the counter, eyes widening. “Oooh. Sounds like a breakup drink. Is this an emotional support cocoa?”

  “It’s layered,” she said with a sly smile, pouring the first mug. “It’s like someone is charming enough to pull you in, but they’re also just sharp enough around the edges to keep you wondering. That’s cocoa #9.”

  She hadn’t invented that line on the fly, of course. Every cocoa in the Project 365 journal came with its own little backstory, handwritten in Celia’s careful script.

  Juno could still see the exact page in her mind, every swirl of ink burned into memory. One of the perks of a photographic mind, she guessed. Today, for once, Celia was speaking through her.

  Did making cocoa always feel this good?

  “Then give me a double shot,” Mark said, cutting through Juno’s thoughts with his usual smirk. “I live for emotional damage.”

  Juno raised an eyebrow as Mark leaned over the counter, grinning.

  “Extra whipped cream,” he added, winking. “And don’t forget the chili flakes. It adds character.”

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  She scoffed, reaching for the shaker. “Chili flakes in cocoa? You’re impossible,” she muttered, but there was laughter in her voice as she handed over the steaming mug, the odd combination somehow working, just like him.

  Marie stepped forward, tugging at her beanie with a playful grin. “Make mine with extra zest today. The citrus kind, not the emotional. I’m already running on emotional caffeine.”

  “Coming right up,” Juno said, setting to work. She poured Marie’s next, adding an extra dash of orange zest and a hint of almond syrup.

  Ian waited quietly, watching her work. His eyes flicked from the mugs to her hands, to her face. Always watching. Always reading.

  “Do you want anything added to cocoa #9, Ian?” she asked finally, turning to him as Marie and Mark began sipping at their cocoas.

  He shook his head, still smiling. “Just the cocoa, please.”

  She poured his last, giving it a swirl to smooth the top. No toppings, no garnish. Just clean, dark warmth. She passed it to him, and for a moment, their fingers brushed. Neither spoke.

  Juno—after asking permission from Tony to take a short break—-followed the trio as they moved to a spot by the southern window, coats draped over chairs, steam curling from their mugs like incense.

  The warmth of the group was palpable, and the sounds of conversation wove through the air. Mark was telling a wild story, gesturing animatedly as Marie and Ian playfully interrupted, each one adding their own twist, contradicting his version of events.

  Their voices blended into a rhythm, comfortable and familiar, just like it was in the Cocoa Club room at school.

  She sat next to Marie in silence, watching them with a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Their laughter, light and easy, filled the space around her, the clinking of spoons and the soft sighs of contentment as they sipped their cocoas all blending together.

  For a moment, Juno felt the tension in her chest ease, her own cocoa warm in her hands. The world outside, cold and distant, seemed to disappear as she let herself sink into the simple comfort of this moment.

  For that fleeting moment, she almost believed this peace could last. Maybe it wasn’t so bad pretending that these were always her true friends.

  And then she saw him.

  Aaron.

  He was walking along the sidewalk outside, head down, shoulders hunched against the cold. His coat flared slightly with each step, and his breath curled visibly in the air. He didn’t glance toward the café.

  But Juno’s body reacted before her mind caught up.

  Her hand stilled. Her heart jumped.

  She stepped away from the table without saying anything to the group, and moved toward the door, her breath catching as her gaze locked onto him.

  She couldn’t explain the pull, couldn’t fight the urge to follow. She just had to know.

  Did he hate her now? After everything he’d said about missing Celia? The words still echoed in her head, leaving a gnawing ache in her chest.

  Did he suspect? Was that why he had said those things to her the other day? Maybe he had started to notice. Maybe, just maybe, he already knew she wasn’t really Celia.

  The door chimed again as she slipped outside into the snow.

  She followed at a quiet distance, her boots crunching against the slush-covered pavement. The wind stung her cheeks, but she barely noticed. All her focus was on Aaron’s back.

  Then he stopped.

  At the far corner of the block, beneath a flickering streetlamp, a girl was waiting. Brown hair. Bright scarf. About their age, or maybe a little older. She looked up as he approached, and her smile lit her whole face.

  Aaron smiled back.

  They stood next to each other, their bodies angled slightly toward one another, the snow falling softly around them. As they spoke, their eyes locked, face to face, not out of politeness or a distracted glance, but with something more: a connection. A real connection.

  Juno’s steps slowed, her breath sharp in her throat. The street noise faded into a distant hum. She stood there, her hands clenched at her sides, watching the exchange unfold like some cruel scene in a movie she didn’t remember auditioning for.

  Who was this girl?

  Her mind raced, but her body couldn’t move. Was this someone from Celia’s past? Someone Aaron had known before?

  A pit formed in her stomach, and she frowned, suddenly wondering if she was... jealous? Great, she thought, this is just what I need right now.

  The girl turned and walked away, her steps light and carefree, the snowflakes swirling gently around her.

  As she reached the corner, she waved at Aaron. He waved back, but the smile on his face didn’t fade. It lingered there, genuine and warm, a softness that Juno hadn’t seen in Aaron for a while.

  Aaron stood frozen for a moment, watching her walk further down the street, his gaze following her every move. The streetlight above him cast a soft glow, illuminating his face as his eyes stayed fixed on the girl.

  Juno’s breath caught in her throat, and she felt the sharp twinge of jealousy twist deep in her chest. She couldn’t explain it, but there it was, gnawing at her.

  She didn’t want to feel this way. She shouldn’t feel this way. But watching him watch her: something inside Juno tightened, a string pulled too taut.

  She took a half-step forward, not knowing what she meant to do. but desperate to do something.

  And that’s when she felt it.

  A presence beside her. Quiet. Hesitant.

  “Celia.”

  She turned and saw Ian standing in the doorway of the café, half in shadow, the other half caught in the warm amber light behind him. He was holding a white envelope, her name written across it in clean, deliberate letters:

  Celia.

  His hand trembled slightly as he held it out. Juno’s heart skipped a beat as she realized that this was the same envelope peeking out of his pocket back in the Cocoa Club room that day.

  Juno stared at him, and he stared back at her. Behind her, the ghost of Aaron’s smile lingered. Ahead, Ian took a step closer.

  The envelope hovered between them, a question too heavy to speak aloud.