The door opens with its usual little chime and the smell of coffee hits me instantly.
I order my usual choice of decaf with a good drizzle of caramel.
I know—what kind of writer doesn't live on caffeine? Well, someone once told me it was bad for my anxiety, and I believed him. I think if he'd said oxygen was bad for me, I'd probably tryto photosynthesize.
Dani, the barista, checks me while handing me the cup. "Rough night?"
"Writer's block," I sigh. "Got any muses for rent?"
She huffs a laugh. "If I did, I wouldn't be spelling names wrong on cups. Card machine's down, by the way—" She pauses, surprised by my smile. "You're not mad?"
"No," I say, pulling out cash and smiling like paying is my favorite thing to do. "I miss the good old times."
She snorts. "You're such a millennial."
I wink and claim my usual corner, sinking into the pink plush chair before watching my private window-cinema at full 2024 speed. Everything passing—car horns, footsteps, even the saxophone testing notes on the curb.
Sipping my decaf, I catch sight of myself in the reflection and realize I could scare myself. Dark circles, shoulders hunched, skin a little ghostly. Definitely not flattering and I need to get out of the house more. But first, I have a book to write.
"Come on, universe," I whisper, palms pressed to my face. "Help a girl out. Give me some inspiration... Something... anything..."
And then I glance up, and the world decides to slow down.
The clatter of cups, the chatter, the music—it all fades into the background.
Because I seehim.
He walks past the window. Tall, black hair, a little longer now, brushed back in that careless way that somehow always worked. That bone structure—those cheekbones—carved fromlimestone in perfect symmetry. Skin kissed bronze, still glowing like he's a walking summer.
But it's the way he moves—unhurried, like he knows the world shifts around him.
He slides his phone into his pocket, scrubs of course, and looks up, not down. Present. That's always been his thing—he's here when he's here. And once, that used to be enough to make me forget who I was.
By the time my brain catches up he's gone, folded back into the crowd like he was never there, but my pulse is still stuttering like a scratched record.
I shake my head, finish the last sip of my cup, and order another one for the way home debating whether I should do caffeine because I need to wake up from whatever fever this is.
It can't behim.
Ben is in New York.
He told me himself in his last message, the one that ended with:I hope one day I can forgive you.
I reread it for a month, even though it destroyed me.
Because you don't say that unless you felt something real, right?
And yeah, I was already with Richard and it doesn't look good, even in hindsight, but feelings don't ask for permission. You can feel something for two people at once. I know because I did.
I close my eyes and just like that I'm back in 2017.
Nineteen, dating David, a med student who really should've gone into law because he was too good at fabricatingtruth.Cheating bastard.
I'd heard abouthimfrom everyone before I ever saw him. He seemed larger than life—the prodigy who assisted in surgeries, volunteered at free clinics, won every tennis tournament, and still had enough juice to be a good friend.
"You'll like Ben," David said on the way to the party. "Everyone does."
Ben's apartment was crammed with students celebrating the end of exams, which meant cheap wine that leaves film on your teeth, someone making out under the coat-rack, and guys taking turns playing FIFA.
