Unseen

The morning routine

Every morning at 8:15, I stood at the back corner of Brewed Awakenings, gripping my coffee like it held the courage I never seemed to find.

And every morning at exactly 8:17, she walked in.

She didn’t just enter the café—she arrived, like some gentle breeze that managed to stir everything around it. Her steps were soft but steady, her face calm and focused, her presence impossible to ignore—at least not for me.

I didn’t know her name.

So, I called her Page Seven.

One day, she’d been so deep into a book that she hadn’t heard the barista call her name—three times. She didn’t even look up. I happened to see the page she was reading: page seven. And that was enough for my imagination to take over.

I watched her from a safe distance. Always the same seat. Always the same order: oat milk latte, one pump hazelnut, no foam, extra hot. She said it all in one breath, like even that small moment didn’t deserve her full attention.

I’d like to say I wasn’t being weird. That I wasn’t obsessed. But maybe I was, just a little.

Still, I never followed her. Never tried to get her number.

I just… noticed her.

A lot.

For three months, she became part of my day. The best part, actually.

My friends would’ve told me to just talk to her. But they didn’t know what it felt like to build someone up in your head to the point where reality felt like a risk you couldn’t take.

I wasn’t just afraid of rejection.

I was afraid she wouldn’t live up to the version of her I’d created in my mind.

Or worse—what if she did?

⸻

I had a plan, though.

It was cheesy and stupid, but I loved it.

I would “accidentally” bump into her while she was picking up her drink. Spill her latte just a little. Just enough to spark conversation. Then I’d offer to buy her another. We’d laugh. We’d talk. We’d fall in love.

You know, the usual.

I rehearsed the whole thing in the mirror. Twice.

Okay—six times.

I even used my roommate’s shampoo bottle as her stand-in. He never found out. Thankfully.

But when the perfect moment came… I froze.

She walked in, just like always. But that morning, she seemed… different. Tired. Distracted. She had her phone in her hand, pressed tightly against her ear. Her shoulders were hunched like she was carrying something heavy no one could see.

She didn’t notice me. She didn’t notice anyone.

She ordered, grabbed her drink, and left without even adding sugar or stirring it—something she always did.

And just like that, she was gone again.

No spilled coffee.

No magical meeting.

No first words.

Just silence. Mine.

⸻

That night, I sat on my bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’d missed my last chance.

But she came back the next day.

And the day after.

And the one after that.

And I kept watching.

And waiting.

Every time, I whispered in my mind, “Tomorrow, I’ll talk to her.”

But “tomorrow” never came.

Maybe I liked the mystery more than the truth.

Maybe I liked the idea of her more than the risk of knowing her.

Or maybe—I was just scared.

⸻

Still, I began to notice the smallest things about her. How she held her book with her thumb tucked under the spine. How she tapped her cup twice before taking the first sip. How she wore the same necklace every day—a tiny gold pendant in the shape of a leaf.

I started making up stories about her.

That she was a writer.

That she was in love with someone far away.

That she came here every morning because this was the one place that didn’t remind her of heartbreak.

Ridiculous? Probably.

But I liked pretending.

And in my pretending, she became real to me in a way that no one else had been in a long time.

⸻

I didn’t know her name.

I didn’t know where she lived.

I didn’t know if she’d ever even seen me.

But I knew one thing for sure.

She was the girl who walked into my mornings…

And made them feel like something worth waiting for.