Maybe it was the dusty air—or just the exhaustion of working in a café wedged between a laundromat and a construction site. Word is, they’re turning that construction into a cat café. My boss made sure my job was secure the moment she heard, probably sensing I’d trade the groaning voices and draining energy of this place for a room full of purring silence in a heartbeat. I’d give anything to sit in stillness instead of absorbing every heavy sigh and spilled-over problem that walks through our door.
Luckily—for her, at least—I’m allergic to cats. Otherwise, my job application would've been in before the first brick was laid.
Most days, it’s the same tired faces—arriving like clockwork, as if life had placed them on an unchanging loop. What made them dull wasn’t just the repetition—it was the quiet surrender, the unwillingness to taste something different, even in a drink.
Then Saturday mornings, she walks in: the high school cheerleader, petite and polished, always in a coordinated sports set with a bouncy ponytail that seemed to move on its own. She had the kind of energy that demanded attention without asking for it outright.
She’d order a small espresso like it was part of a ritual, then disappear into her screen. Snap. Pose. Sip—or pretend to. She’d claim her usual corner by the window. Her fingers moved fast, editing photos before the steam even left the cup. If you clicked the tags she carefully placed, they’d lead straight to her curated feed—and right back to this café, the quiet backdrop to her online life.
I’d bet she was hoping a guy—maybe one she hooked up with once, or still thought about—would catch on, connect the dots, and casually “bump into her.” She wasn’t here for the coffee. She was here to be seen.
Then on Monday mornings comes the distressed husband—or soon-to-be divorcé, as he claims. He moves in restless, anxious motions, eyes darting to the door as the minutes stretch thin. Every week, he waits for his soon-to-be ex-wife to arrive, though the legal papers between them always remain untouched.
And yet, every time she walks through the door, there’s a flicker—a quiet spark behind his eyes. You’d think he wasn’t here for the documents at all, but for that fleeting sense of almost belonging. A moment where he’s not entirely alone.
Before she arrives, he checks his reflection in the café window. Straightens his shirt. Fixes his face. From what I’ve seen, they’ve been dragging this out for nearly two months—not because of the paperwork, but because neither of them knows who they’ll be when it’s over. Because change feels heavier than staying stuck. Once the papers are signed, they’ll both be tossed back into the wild—raw, nameless, and alone, with no one left to claim them.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m any different from them—these customers I observe are like characters in a play, each performing their part while I hide behind the counter like an unnoticed stagehand. I brew coffee, clean tables, and watch people try to outrun loneliness with lattes, legal documents, and carefully edited photos. But maybe I’m doing the same thing—letting the comfort of familiarity shield me from whatever’s waiting beyond the café doors.
I’ve convinced myself I don’t need connection—not in the way they do. But some mornings, when the place is quiet and sunlight cuts through the dust in the air just right, I catch my own reflection in the espresso machine. And I see it. The same ache. The same silence under the skin.
What is this feeling that always seems to haunt me?
I used to think it was boredom. Or loneliness. But it's deeper than that—like a shadow that moves with me, even when the sun is out.
Growing up, I spent nearly every second befriending myself. Not out of self-love, but out of necessity. I created a whole world where no one else belonged, because it hurt less that way. I figured if my eyes were always exposed to the brokenness of others—to love that unraveled and people who disappeared—then the safest thing to do was shut the door on connection altogether. I taught myself how to be content with being alone. Maybe even in love with it.
It got so bad that the only contact in my phone is my mother.
I’m an only child. My father left after every other child they tried for after me didn’t make it. He saw my mom as barren—at least to him. My birth wasn’t the fresh start he wanted. I think he always held a grudge against me, like my arrival sealed off the future he had dreamed of. Like I stole something from him by existing.
So I’ve always kept a respectful distance from anyone who required interaction. At school, I was present but never quite there. I would daydream from a distance, quietly observing, afraid to take up space—afraid that I would be the boulder blocking someone else from finally reaching the end of their rainbow. I never wanted to be the reason someone couldn’t be happy.
And yet... I wonder if that’s what I’ve done to myself.
Built so many walls in the name of safety, I forgot how to be seen. Forgot how to want to be seen.
I just see the ache underneath it all. And I ask myself:
Am I still building a world no one else belongs to? Or have I just forgotten how to let someone in?
It was a quiet Wednesday morning. Wednesdays were always forgotten—just like the coffee shop on days like this. I had been on the clock for three hours now, and not a single soul had walked through the double glass doors. Maybe if someone passed by, they'd take pity on the pouting barista behind the counter.
With nothing but time on my hands, I decided to do something different. Something bold. I was tired of hiding behind routine and silence. Maybe it was time to break free of the four walls I’d built around myself—time to put myself out there, in hopes of a real interaction. This time, I’d be open. I’d let someone in.
There was a park just a few minutes away. I always walked past it, never through it. Still, something about it seemed inviting—wholesome, even. The kind of place where laughter floated in the air and strangers wore smiles that made you believe the world wasn’t so heavy after all.
“Hey, Bridget,” I called out to my boss.
She glanced over her shoulder and waved me off with a knowing smile. I figured she already knew what I was about to do.
I took off my apron, folded it neatly, and set it on the counter. Just as I reached for the door, I felt her hand on my shoulder.
“I’m proud of you,” she said. “And don’t be awkward—today might be the day you find love.”
I turned to her with a confused expression. “Love?”
She shrugged. “It was a quote from my daily app. And even though my husband gets on my nerves, I think the day we met, I walked right into love. So... maybe this is for you.”
I laughed—partly because of how silly it sounded, and partly because she might actually believe it.
Love?
I’d never really thought about being loved—let alone liked.
Was it the kind of love that makes your stomach turn and your heart race? Or something simple, like a conversation that doesn’t feel forced?
Love. It felt like a big word. Too big for someone like me.
I stepped outside, letting the door shut softly behind me. The air was warm, the sun just starting to glow through the morning haze.
The park wasn’t far. A short walk led me to the trees—tall, still, and quiet. I sat beneath them, legs crossed, watching the world carry on in front of me. Laughter floated from the swings. A dog barked in the distance. Life was moving, and for once, I wasn’t hiding from it.
Beside me sat a boy. His hands were folded in his lap, his eyes on the same view as mine.
I thought this might be my chance—to finally put myself out there.
“Hey,” I said, almost too quietly.
My voice sounded foreign. The word hung between us, unanswered. I immediately regretted it.
He didn’t look at me right away, just kept his eyes forward.
I cleared my throat, heart pounding. “You seem like someone who’d rather be at home.” I hesitated. “Alone, I mean. Why are you here?”
He glanced sideways, then nodded. “To be alone,” he agreed.
I fiddled with the hem of my sleeve. “I’m the opposite, actually. I guess I came here to not feel so… deserted.”
There was a pause. The breeze rustled through the trees.
“If I had to put my life into one word,” he said, “I’d say consumed.”
I turned to him. “Consumed?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I spend every day, every spare second, feeling for others. Worrying. Carrying things that were never mine to hold. I guess I never really got the chance to live for myself.”
I listened, unsure if I was allowed to speak or if interrupting would break something fragile.
“But maybe,” he continued, “that’s what life is really about. Uncovering the pieces of yourself that got buried. Figuring out where you truly belong.”
He rested his arms on his knees. “I grew up in a big family. Five sisters. Two brothers.”
I let out a small, nervous laugh. “Your family’s trying to make history.”
A brief smile touched his face. “Yeah. Those roots built me. Made me who I am.” Then it faded. “But I lost one of my siblings earlier this week.”
The words dropped like a stone.
“It’s like a piece of the puzzle went missing. Like something inside me came undone.”
I didn't know what to say. So I didn’t say anything. Just nodded gently, as if that was enough.
“It’s strange,” he said. “How something can be so bitter and sweet at the same time. To love someone that deeply, and then have to let go.”
He sighed. “It made me realize—life is going to keep changing, whether I’m ready or not. But I haven’t quite figured out who I am outside of those I love. They're all beginning to walk different paths, chasing what life has to offer.”
He turned slightly toward me. “And me? The one who clings so tightly to everyone… where does that leave me?”
He paused.
“In the dust?” His voice softened. “Forgotten? Left with no reason to keep going?”
I swallowed, unsure if I was supposed to answer or simply sit with him in the silence. This was new to me—being chosen for a moment like this. Not out of obligation. Not because someone had to.
Just... because I was here.
He cleared his throat and raised a hand in front of his face, like he was shielding a shy smile.
“Do I know you? No... but here I am, ranting to you.”
I let out a breathy laugh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“It’s okay... That actually made me feel good about myself, in some weird way.”
He extended his hand, and my eyes met his—clouded and puffy from shed tears, their color muted but still striking. “My name is...”
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