My cheeks burn hotter.
He takes the cup and walks away, drinking as he goes.
By the time he reaches the bike, the coffee’s gone. He crushes the cup in one hand and drops it into the bin.
Then he looks back at me.
“See you.”
Two words, low and steady, like apromisethat feels heavier than it should.
He swings a leg over. The engine rumbles. Then he’s gone.
And I just stand there, heart loud, lips parted, stomach twisted into knots I pretend are caffeine.
The next customer clears their throat.
I blink. Straighten.Breathe.
I remind myself that I'am a functioning adult.
I am.
The morning keeps moving.
Orders come and go. I smile. I work. I laugh at a joke I barely hear. I keep busy, becausebusy means I don’t think too hard.
And when the rush finally thins again, I let myself breathe.
I love it here.
Even if my rental room is tiny. My bed is cheap and creaks every time I shift my weight. And the bathroom is even smaller. So cramped I can barely turn around. The shower squeaks, and the faucet leaks.
It’s mine.
No one locks me inside it.
No one tells me I owe them my life because they provide a roof.
I take a second to stare at the sunlight spilling across the street. Lovestone Ridge looks like something out of a movie. Small storefronts, slow mornings, people who wave like they’ve got nowhere else they need to be.
I came here because I needed somewhere to disappear.
Somehow, I ended up somewhere I want to stay.
My chest tightens with a feeling that scares me.
Hope.
Hope is dangerous. Hope makes you sloppy.
Running taught me that. One wrong choice, one trusting smile, one moment of thinking you’re safe, and everythingsnaps.
I push the thought down and wipe the counter again, because my hands need something to do.
My mother is gone. That truth sits in me like a stone. She’s been gone long enough that it should hurt less, but grief doesn’t work that way. Some days I can almost forget. Other days I remember her voice and it feels like a wound ripped open.
After she died, my stepdad stopped pretending.
