June—purple hair, cat-eye glasses, and a “Don’t Talk to Me Before Espresso” shirt—greets me with a tired wave.
“Back so soon?”
“I had to see if the latte lived up to the sign,” I say, sliding onto a stool at the counter.
June chuckles. “It doesn’t. But I admire your optimism.”
She makes it anyway. I sit there, sipping slowly, while something strange happens.
I pull out my phone and open the Notes app. Then I start asking questions.
“How many drinks do you usually sell on a weekday?”
June blinks at me. “You trying to do my taxes or something?”
“I’m just curious.”
I ask more. About profit margins. Vendors. Local advertising. When I finally look up, she’s watching me with narrowed eyes and a smirk tugging at her lips.
“You know, most people just order the latte and scroll TikTok.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not most people.”
June raises an eyebrow. “Clearly.”
An hour later, I’m still there.
The second cup of coffee sits forgotten beside me, the once-smooth lavender foam now a thin ring around the inside of the mug. My notebook lies open on the counter, half a page filled with messy scribbles—bullet points, question marks, arrows going nowhere. It’s not revolutionary. It’s not even good.
But it’s something.
I tap my pen against the paper, reading the last line I wrote:
Community board? Local art nights? Collab with farmer’s market?
It’s scattered, vague, idealistic.
And for the first time in forever, it doesn’t feel stupid.
June’s wiping down the counter nearby, humming to some indie acoustic track playing faintly over the speakers. She hasn’t asked any more questions. Just let me sit here with my notebook, my cold coffee, and the weird little glimmer of hope flickering in my chest. A few people have stopped by—but it’s easy to see they’re not making enough money per hour if this is a normal morning.
“I should go,” I murmur it more to myself than to her.
June glances over. “Take your time.”
I nod, gathering my things slowly, like if I move too fast the spell might break. Outside, the late morning sun is starting to stretch itself across the parking lot, the kind of golden light that makes even cracked pavement look soft.
I step out into the warmth, the bells on the door jingling behind me. The breeze lifts the hem of my shirt as I pause at the top of the step.
Then I stop and turn back.
Through the tall windows, I can see June behind the counter, flipping a mug in her hands. The shop is mostly empty again—just one guy typing furiously on a laptop in the corner—but the light hits it just right. The bookshelves. The wildflowers on the table. The crooked art prints on the wall.
Her place might be imperfect and understaffed and barely hanging on—but it’s beautiful.
And so is the idea that maybe I’m not actually lost. Maybe this is what it means to begin again.
I rest my hand against the doorknob for a moment, not going back in—but not quite ready to leave.
