Unseen

The Coffee Guy

I didn’t know when it happened exactly, but suddenly, I was part of her routine.

Mia would walk in, flash me a smile, and slide into the seat across from mine like it was reserved just for her. No invitation needed. No awkwardness. Just ease. Natural. Like we’d always been this way.

She started bringing two coffees.

One for her, and one she handed to me without asking. “Extra hot. One sugar. No foam, right?”

She remembered.

It shouldn’t have meant so much. But it did.

I sipped the coffee slowly, trying to hide the grin pulling at the corners of my mouth. I wanted to ask her how she knew. I wanted to say something clever. But instead, I just nodded and said, “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, Coffee Guy.”

That was the nickname. Coffee Guy.

I laughed when she said it. Not because it was funny, but because it felt like something. Like a place in her world. Even if it was a small one.

⸻

We texted often now.

Nothing deep. Just little things. Memes, random thoughts, photos of her lunch when it looked decent enough to brag about. Sometimes she’d send voice notes, especially when she was too tired to type. I’d replay them at night, listening to the rise and fall of her voice like it was my favorite song.

Once, at 2 a.m., she texted:

“Do you ever feel like you’re just… floating? Like, life’s happening, and you’re just watching it from the outside?”

I stared at the screen for ten minutes before typing back.

“Every day.”

That was one of the rare times she didn’t reply right away. But when she did, she simply said:

“Glad it’s not just me.”

⸻

She let me in. Little by little.

I learned that she’d been through a rough breakup a few months ago. That sometimes she stayed up all night just designing things she’d never show anyone. That she had a younger brother she hadn’t spoken to in years. That she hated when people chewed loudly. That she once wanted to write a book but gave up because she didn’t think anyone would read it.

She told me all this casually, like she was talking about the weather. But I listened like it was gospel.

Every detail was a puzzle piece. And I wanted to know the whole picture.

⸻

The truth was, I had fallen for her long before she knew my name.

But now that we were here—talking, laughing, sharing—I was falling all over again. For the real her. Not the girl I imagined. Not the dream version.

The one who got coffee stains on her sleeves. The one who cursed under her breath when her laptop crashed. The one who played sad songs when she was in a good mood because, in her words, “happy songs are exhausting.”

I didn’t want to ruin it by telling her how I felt.

So I stayed in my lane.

I was the safe one. The listener. The reliable friend. Coffee Guy.

And for now, that was enough.

⸻

Then one day, everything shifted.

We were sitting at our usual table. She was showing me an animation she had just finished, excited like a kid showing off a crayon drawing.

I wasn’t even looking at the screen.

I was looking at her.

Her eyes lit up when she talked about her work. Her hands moved when words couldn’t keep up. She bit her lip when she thought I wasn’t watching.

And in that moment, I realized something terrifying:

I was in love with her.

Not a crush. Not an idea.

Actual, heart-thudding, chest-aching, word-failing love.

But I said nothing.

Because love, when unreturned, is a dangerous thing.

⸻

As we got up to leave, she turned to me and smiled.

“You’re a good listener, you know that?”

I smiled back.

“You’re easy to listen to.”

She laughed.

And I memorized the sound.