The Barista

“Time to make you a star,” the barista said, smiling down at the waiting espresso. They held the pitcher high and velvety milk streamed into the cup, creating the perfect base. With steady hands, a simple toothpick, and a bit of flair, the barista brought a sparkling star to life. This was what the barista loved about their job—adding a little beauty to the world.

They set the cup on the counter next to the others, ready to take on more complex designs. Maybe an animal this time. They brewed, they steamed, they poured, and an elegant swan swam across the top of the drink. Then a lion. A rabbit. A bear. They laughed, thinking maybe that was enough wildlife for now.

With each pour, they became more confident, their designs more complex. Elegant roses that looked like they were still unfolding. Spirals that spun dizzyingly across the surface. Mountains capped with the faintest dusting of white, like snow that had only just fallen.

They placed each cup carefully on the seemingly infinite counter. Then, on impulse, they tried a heart. Simple, but an essential addition to their world of art.

The pour started fine: a clean arc, a hopeful curve. But at the last second it slumped into a misshapen blob—a lopsided lump that kept moving like a bag of snakes deciding which way to slither next.

The barista winced and shoved the cup aside. They glanced down the counter at today’s creations—leaves, tulips, waves crashing on a sea of foam. What’s one blobby heart among so many triumphs? They were sure they could create anything. They would simply try again later.

Cup after cup, they used flowing lines and swirling spirals to create new, intricate designs. Spirals that seemed to move like the uncurling tendril of a climbing vine. A rainbow stretching across a stormy sky. A peacock fanning its feathers in a magnificent display.

Then they remembered the heart. It was time to try again. They watched, poised and confident, as the milk flowed into the cup. A flick of the wrist and…a blob. Even blobier than the first.

Maybe the foam wasn’t right, they thought, taking extra care to make the microfoam the perfect texture on their next try. Pour. Flick. Blob. Again, slower this time. Pour. Flick. Blob. Each heart seemed worse than the last.

The barista felt as deflated as their lumpy hearts. They pushed the ruined cups to the edge of the counter.

At first they had laughed them off, but now they lingered on the failures. The swan seemed smug, wings folded just so. The spiral whirled as if mocking them. Even the tulip seemed to lean away from the lumpy shapes in disgust.

The barista tried again. Again. Again. It became their sole focus. Their obsession. The hiss of steam grew harsh. Their wrist ached, their knuckles burned, but still they poured, chasing the perfect heart that inexplicably eluded them.

They poured relentlessly, eyes gleaming with determination mixed with fury. The designs grew grotesque — spirals collapsing into snarled knots, mountains crumbling into jagged shards, violent storms churning through the foam.

The barista’s jaw tightened. They poured another, and another, until their hands shook. Their breath came ragged, their chest tight with rage. But it was always there. The blob. The failure. The heart that never was.

The barista’s arm gave out at last as they slammed the pitcher on the counter in defeat, feeling like their wrists could break at any moment. Maybe it would be better that way, they thought. Maybe they shouldn’t be a creator at all.

The barista pressed their palms to their eyes. “I’ve filled this place with everything—oceans, storms, light, fire, life. But without a perfect heart, it’s nothing. Worse than nothing.”

For the first time in what seemed like eternity, there was silence. No hiss of steam, no clatter of cups. Just the barista’s breath, ragged and thin. And in that silence, a voice—or perhaps a thought, a memory.

Look again. See what you’ve made.

The barista lifted their head. Their gaze fell on one of the cups they had shoved aside, nothing but a spiral. Yet as they stared, the foam rippled, widened, and suddenly streets opened up inside. They saw a kind smile. A comforting hug. A parent watching their child take their first steps, beaming with pride and wonder. A market stall where bread was broken in half, passed from one hand to another. A community coming together, neighbors helping neighbors. A couple falling in love. Friends laughing until their sides ached. A woman, sitting around a table with her family, smiling, looking out of the cup and whispering, “Thank you for this life.”

The barista's throat tightened. "You can see me?"

The voice responded.

They cannot see you, but many believe in you, and all are touched by what you’ve created.

The barista looked at the cup again as more scenes flickered by. A slammed door. A raised fist. The same street now littered with broken glass. The same market, but the bread was snatched with anger, not shared. Soldiers marching. Prejudice and hatred dividing families and communities. A woman, sitting shocked in the rubble of what may have been her own, whispers in an empty voice, “Why?”

The barista set the cup down, their hands trembling. “I may have created this, but look what they’ve done! I see the good. But joy doesn’t erase the suffering. Someone’s laughter doesn’t make another’s pain disappear. What have I done?”

Their gaze fell on a ruined heart. A now familiar blob of milk, lumpy and uneven. “They’re all like this,” the barista said, voice unsteady. “Not one of them is perfect. If only I could have made the perfect heart, perhaps…”

The silence pressed closer, then spoke again—

The heart was never yours to create. Hearts are not static, they are ever evolving. They bend and twist. Some harden, some glow. Most are always in-between, reshaped by each other and what surrounds them. And so it is with the greater heart—the heart of the world itself. It is never still. It shifts with every act inside it.

The barista looked again. Amid the ruin, they caught flashes: enemies clasping hands in smoke, strangers lifting rubble together, children reaching for one another, unafraid. Small weights, tilting the balance.

Their gaze fell on a ruined heart in a cup, its edges collapsing and rising again, stubbornly reshaping.

Not a perfect heart. But alive. In motion. Still capable of shifting toward good.