SidePack - Oneshots

Vikklan: The coffee shop

Prompt: I go to a coffee shop everyday after class and you're always there in the back corner sitting alone and you always order the same thing, I tried it and it's delicious and you look so sad.

I opened my laptop to the essay I was supposed to be writing. I couldn't focus in the dorms, my friends were too noisy, and never gave me any space. I'd found this little coffee shop about five blocks from the university. It was a pretty hipstery place, with tons of indoor plants and hardwood furniture everywhere, but I liked it. It had this feel of peace, for some reason.

I sat on this little bar like thing by the left window out looking the street. It was the only spot available the first day I got here, so I kinda bonded with it, sitting there every Tuesday and Thursday I came here. Everything in the shop was exactly the same, from the plants down to the hairstyle the barista always wore.

I looked up for a minute, glancing around the room, packed with people, but feeling so spacious. There you were, like always. You always sat alone, in the back corner. I noticed your black hair always covers your eyes, I spent so long just looking at you, trying to guess what color your eyes are.

Occasionally you would rummage through your bag, bringing out a pencil and paper. I watched as you let your hand flow over the paper like water, scribbled cursive I had such a primal desire to read. It was odd you never wrote like that on your computer, your face just fell whenever you looked at that screen, the blue light failing to illuminate your immaculate eyes.

You distracted me almost as much as my roommate, but in a good way. My homework still got done, but all I could do at that shop was sip my drink, thinking of you. I began to show up earlier, rushing out of class like a madman, in hopes to hear your voice when you ordered that mysterious drink that is set in time just like this shop.

That was the day you came in late.

I was already here for five minutes, anxious for your arrival. Every time I heard the chimes ring on the shop door, my head snapped up, my eyes searching for your coat, your hat, your short form, to be disappointed by your continuous absence.

Finally, just as I was about to give up, the door chimed once more. I knew it was you, I could feel your presence washing over me like waves. When I looked up at you as you passed me, I saw your eyes. They were the most indescribable color, calling them brown would be an insult, they were a beautiful mix of caramel and polished wood. I had never realized how perfect they fit you, how perfect you are.

You passed me by, your eyes wavering as we broke the connection we had moments earlier. You walked up to the barista, and I could vaguely hear him ask for 'his regular'. I wondered what that was, what kind of drink could match you as well as your eyes.

Today I tried what you order. It was delicious. The flavors fit perfectly together, with just the right amount of sweetness, with a sharp taste left in my mouth, but it was oddly pleasant. The drink even looked complicated, I watched the barista mix unlabeled spices of unknown proportions into the small cup. When I asked her for your drink, I tried to subtly point at you, but you caught my eyes.

It felt like I stood there looking at you for a century, my heart picking up speed, a mix of nerves and embarrassment consuming my thoughts. Your face was emotionless for a while, before giving me a smile. It was small, hard to notice, but believe me every time my eyes closed after that, your smile burned behind them.

You always looked so sad, and I hated it. The way you looked at the piles of paper in front of you, or the clock behind the coffee machine. It was like merely being alive drained the light from your timeless eyes. You would catch me looking at you once in awhile, I don't think you minded, mostly you just dropped your gaze, going back to your work, or writing in such beautiful cursive.

After class today I decided it was time. I gathered up my laptop and papers from where I sat, still a half an hour before I usually left. Today was the day the empty seat across from you would be filled. I was nervous, I'd never seen anyone switch seats before.

When I sat down, you looked up, startled, accidentally snapping your pencil between your fingers. I laughed a bit, rummaging around in my bag until I found an extra pencil, I normally never carried them on me, with computers I didn't see the point. You reluctantly took it, smiling up at me.

I introduced myself, and apologized for startling him. You laughed a little, telling me your name, Vikk. Your voice is beautiful, even more so than any instrument in the world. I asked you what you were writing, and you tried to cover up your creation with your small hands. I didn't push you, you seemed so delicate, the last thing I wanted was to push you away.

I asked you typical questions, about your school life and your hobbies. You answered curtly, asking me about mine. I don't like talking about myself, you know, but I did it for you. We skimmed the surface of life in those first few days, I figure you have issues with your family, just like I do with mine. I had to resist every urge to ask you about it, those little things I said that would cause you to be lost in thought. My curiosity to find why you intrigued me so did not belong in such trivial matters.

It became a custom in those few months we spent together, I would sit across from you, my old seat on the balcony waiting for me, but I ignored it. We would sometimes get strange looks when you laughed too loudly at jokes I told, but it made me happy to see your smile. We never hung out or talked outside of the shop, which bothered me a bit. And when you told me you didn't have a phone, that I couldn't talk to you anywhere else but here. I still ordered your drink, and one day you tried mine, telling me it made you feel happy.

One Tuesday when we were sitting together, you handed me a notebook. It was the one you always wrote in, the pages worn and bended at the edges. I saw that handwriting, the beautiful cursive, all over the pages. I looked up at you curiously, slowly opening the front cover. You nodded to me, telling me to read it, and that you'd see me on Thursday to ask me what I thought of it.

I did not stay long after you left, running home quickly, pushing all work to the side. Sitting on my bed in the darkness, my little reading light illuminating your words.

The small notebook had many pages, packed full of notes and sketches, describing various situations and thoughts in depth. I skimmed the pages, writing down comments to tell you when I saw you next. You said I didn't have to read if I didn't want to, but I did read it, paying attention to every detail, even the crossed out sentences you hid from me in pen. It didn't stop me, I relished every word on every page.

One story stood out to me. It was about two people who met at a museum. One liked a certain painting, a black canvas with gibberish words and scribbles, telling the other if they wanted to understand the world, it would be through something like this. They slowly became friends, and then eventually fell in love. I felt a warm feeling in my heart as I followed the story, until the cursive wave stopped. There was no ending written, not even any notes on the margin. I guess you were saving it for a rainy day.

When I walked in on Thursday afternoon, your seat was empty. I figured you were late again, so I waited. And waited. My eyes rested on the chimes of the door, listening for your voice calling my name, waiting to feel your presence wash over me like an ocean breeze.

You never came.

Just like that, you were gone.