Coffee

Edit by me

This is written not necessarily for the guy with the grey sweater, but for my own lovey-dovey heart who now can't take the sight of him. 

The first time I saw you was as I stepped foot into the warm embrace of the coffee shop down the street from my house. All I could hear was the buzz of the coffee machine working in the distance, and the barista trying to keep his swearing unheard after a customer with an overcomplicated order left him questioning his job here. 

To be honest, there were no sparks  nor did I feel as if my stomach was going to spew its insides as I walked over to the table next to yours. I noticed you had a terrifying amount of books splayed across the table and you, with an espresso in one hand and a quill in the other was desperately trying to finish what seemed to be a half-done essay; ink spots dirtying the edges of the paper.

Gah hipsters, I thought as I took a seat next to the odd quill bearing man you were and took out my own books and laptop and proceeded to throw my bag underneath the table between my legs. Common courtesy I would think, to not look like a seat hogger. With earphones shoved into my ears, sounds of the outside world faded away. The only thing I could hear other than the playing music, was the typing of  keys as I rushed to finish my own 3000 word essay that was unfairly due tomorrow. 

I haven't felt calmer in ages. The coffee shop had a very intimate atmosphere, with its dimly lit lights and homely decorations that filled every nook and cranny of the place; wonky frames hung on the concrete walls, pillows of all colours and patterns scattered on the seats, and  a bright flame crackled in the vintage fireplace that sat at the far back of the shop. 

Immersed in the essay I was that I didn't hear the first or twentieth (as you politely told me) time you tried to get my attention. "Sorry, but do you by any chance have any ink?" You asked, holding out the empty bottle of your own and tipped it over to illustrate that it was done and dry. 

Being eye-to-eye, it was the first time I was able to see you clearly throughout the hours we spent here. The wiry frames of your glasses were topped off by an unruly mess of sandy brown hair with ends curled in countless directions. Your eyes, they were exceptional; a blue so pale and clear it resembled glaciers fringed with dark long lashes. Staring into them were almost hypnotising, and maybe that was why you had to wear glasses. It worked the same way Cyclops' did, with the exception of killer laser beams. 

I remember being so taken aback by my sudden and almost creepy way of noticing your appearance that my answer came out as a stutter. I also remember my cheeks starting to go hot and redder than the crimson Christmas bobbles that hung on the wreath behind us. You laughed. 

All of a sudden, it was as if my life fit into a schedule that I subconsciously made. Lonely nights in my dormitory morphed into joy filled study hours powered by caffeine and the lively buzz of baristas and customers of all ages chatting. 

Sitting at the furthest corner of the shop, we were slightly hidden from the rest of its hustle and bustle. I learnt why you used a quill after you had enough of my teasing. It was because it was the first thing your grandfather gave you when you were 5 and all you wanted to do was write on the walls of their house. I learnt that your grandparents left their all in Italy to come and raise you and your sister here because their daughter's relationship was not as blissful as it was 6 years ago, when they watched her walk down the aisle with the man she loved. I learnt that you loved going to school until you accidentally caught bullies bringing misery into your sister's life and that it made you so angry that you confronted them yourself, only to find the stuff in your bag clogging one of the toilets and foul names scrawled across your locker. Your beloved quill nearly snapped in half but its thick handkerchief wrapping protected it best. You stared at the ceiling and softly said "I'd never forgive myself if it broke.". Your eyes watered as you said it and thinking I hadn't noticed, you laughed it off and added "I don't think Nonno would forgive me either." 

Days pass by, every day almost similar to the next. It was weird that we never did ask for each others phone numbers. We just expected to see each other every time we step through the heavy black  door of our little getaway place. Who knew we would find a little slice of heaven in a city so polluted and dense. It was odd how you'd always look the exact same as I'd left you the day before whenever I saw you next. Almost like you were stuck in time whilst the rest of our lives flew past. The image of you in your knitted grey sweater and wiry glasses, head hidden behind whichever book you were reading that day and how your eyes almost gleamed instantly when you catch sight of me by the coffee shop window will always stick in my mind. 

The last time I saw you, you told me how thrilled you were that you were nearing the end of the story you had been writing the first time we met. The story you wrote as a tribute to your Grandfather who had been the man of your world and will always be. You wanted to tell his story to the world as you had to me; how he fought in the war, how he met your Grandmother in a quirky little tea shop similarly as we had, how they moved halfway across the world to care for their grandchildren, how even though they were grey and old, they were full of life and wonder. 

You weren't sitting where you always would when I came in. Maybe you were running a little late trying to finish the story, I'd thought as I took a seat near the fireplace. The day was coldest it has been all winter and my nose was as red as Rudolph's. Ah, he's going to have a blast making fun of me today, I say out loud, rubbing my nose as I look into the slightly dusty mirror above the seats. With my books spread across the table, I started on another one of my sadly unfinished college essays. It must've been an hour or so that I realized maybe you weren't coming today. Sighing, I went back to work and reminded myself to ask for your phone number the next time we met so that we would know if one of us weren't coming. 

It must've been the sound of the angry barista, swearing at his coffee grinder and how it wouldn't work that woke me. I had fallen asleep on my essay and had nearly spilled my drink on the floor when I stretched my arms with a long and shameless yawn. I leaned back and checked my phone. 9.47 pm. I was about to leave for the bathroom when out of the corner of my eye,  a piece of aged paper that stuck out of one of my History books caught my attention. I gave the fogged windows one last look incase you would walk in apologetically late but there was nobody there. I reached for the mysterious paper, which unfolded to reveal a note. The handwriting on it looked remarkably familiar but as I had just woken up, it took longer for my brain to recognise who's it was. Soon enough, I finally did. It ended with–

–Thank you for making the last of my days the brightest it has ever been. 

I will never be more sorry than I already am.

Love, 

Your idiot."

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Heavy tears rolled down my cheeks and I remember how much you hated it when I sniffled, but this time, you didn't tell me off. I'm still angry that it took you so long but I get it. You wanted the story to be perfect and I can strongly assure you today, that it was. It was nothing less than perfection. Every time I walk past the bookstore, I'd see your books messily stacked at its doors just as books were stacked in front of you when you were working on it. Sometimes, I'd walk in just to look at the small photo of you at the back of the book, in the author's corner. It made me miss you more. Today, I stepped out into the chilly November air alone, the bell hanging above the door frame chimed as I walked the cobbled streets back to my house. The swearing barista caught me as I left and said "Hey, tell your buddy to buy another goddamn jumper, would'ya?."

But you weren't in your grey sweater anymore. 

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"I'm sorry, I'm sorry that this piece of paper is all you're going to hear me by. I'm sorry that it's not my voice that is going to be playing in your head whenever you miss me, but maybe it's easier that way. For you, I mean. I mean, I just I don't want to picture you going through all that anxiety and fear after I'm gone. 

I know this is horrible for me to say, but keeping you away from the what was bound to happen was easier said than done. I'm selfish but you became my everything. You were the person I saw the most and wanted to see most often. You were what brought me back to being able to laugh when I thought I would never again. 

The prospect of seeing you every night kept me going. I was so exhausted. The more the days pass, the weaker I got. I couldn't tell you because I know you'd force me to a hospital and that was the last thing I wanted. Being stuck in a room with beeping machines under intense white light seemed depressing to me. I know maybe you'd never forgive me for leaving you this way, with so many unanswered questions and so many more adventures and wonders of the world to discover together and I, will never have a reason good enough to justify it. 

I'm going to see Nonno and Nonna again. Are you happy for me? After all those years, I'm finally going to be with the people who truly love me. I'm going to be happy again. No more silent crying and mental breakdowns. No more white capped orange bottles neatly arranged in my cupboards. No more nights holding back pain. This world is no place for a broken person like me. 

But, with all my heart and soul– 

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Ah, it feels amazing to have written a story after what seems like ages since I wrote the last one. I'm currently in the middle of my AS exams and a little break from the stress was really what I needed. Hoping I'd be able to write more when the holidays roll in. 

♡