LOVE BETWEEN THE ALTERS

The coffee shop smelled like burnt sugar and rain. I should’ve called in sick. My head had been foggy since 6am, like someone turned the volume down on the world and forgot to turn it back up. But rent was due in five days, and "I feel weird" wasn’t a reason my manager accepted. I tied my apron behind my back and pushed through the door of Bean There. The bell jingled. Same bell. Same chipped counter. Same playlist of acoustic songs that all sounded like breakups. That’s when I saw her. She was sitting at the corner table by the window, the one that got the worst light and the best view of the street. Brown cardigan, sleeves pushed up. A paperback face-down beside her mug. Her hair was pulled back, but pieces had escaped and curled around her jaw. She looked up when I walked by with the tray. Her eyes were hazel. No, green. No— She smiled. Small. Polite. “Hi.” “Hi,” I said, because my brain short-circuited around customers who were pretty. “What can I get you?” “Just water, please.” Her voice was soft. Tired, maybe. I brought it over two minutes later. She was writing in the margins of her book. Fast, angry little notes. “Here you go,” I said, setting it down. “On the house. You look like you’ve had a day.” Her head snapped up. For half a second her face went blank. Not surprised. Blank. Like someone flipped a switch behind her eyes. Then the smile came back, but different. Brighter. Younger. “Thank you, mister!” Mister? I was 26. “Uh… you’re welcome,” I said slowly. “Are you… okay?” She nodded vigorously. Too vigorously. “Yep! I’m waiting for my sister. She’s getting books.” She gestured to the empty chair across from her. There was no bag, no coat. Just her book and her water. I should’ve walked away. Instead I said, “What are you reading?” She glanced down, then back at me, and the brightness dimmed. “Oh. Um. Nothing. Just… poetry.” Before I could answer, the door opened and cold air came in. She flinched. Not at the cold. At the sound. When she looked up again, it was a third person in the same face. This one didn’t smile. This one assessed me like I was a problem to solve. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. “You new?” she asked. Her voice was lower. Sharper. “I’ve worked here for a year,” I said, confused. “Are you… are you okay? Do you need—” “I need you to not ask that,” she cut in. “We’re fine.” We. Something clicked in my head and immediately I wished it hadn’t. I’d taken one psych class in college. I’d read an article. I didn’t know anything, not really. “Right,” I said. “I’ll… let you be.” I went back behind the counter. My hands were shaking. Not because I was scared. Because I’d just watched a person change in front of me, and no one else in the shop seemed to notice. For the next hour I tried not to stare. I failed. She switched again. Once while reading. Once while staring out the window. The soft one. The bright one. The sharp one. Sometimes she’d pause mid-sip of water like she’d forgotten she was holding it. When she finally stood to leave, she gathered her book and paused at the counter. “Thanks for the water,” she said. Soft voice again. The first one. “I’m Maya.” “I’m Daniel,” I said. She nodded, and for a second the sharp one flickered across her face. Then she was gone, out into the rain. I didn’t know it then, but that was the day I met her. Times three. I didn’t see her for a week. I told myself I wasn’t looking for her. I was just noticing the corner table. It stayed empty. On day eight she came back. Same cardigan. Same table. This time she ordered coffee. Black. I brought it over. “Hey, Maya.” She blinked. “Do I know you?” My stomach dropped. “From last week. You were here. With the book.” Her expression shifted. Not blank this time. Embarrassed. “Oh. Sorry. I have a bad memory sometimes.” “It’s okay,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “How are you?” “Fine.” She wrapped both hands around the mug. “Busy.” I wanted to ask which you. I didn’t. Instead I said, “You like poetry?” Her face did something complicated. “The dreamer does.” The what. She caught herself and laughed. Too loud. “I mean, I do. Sometimes.” I nodded like that made sense. “What kind?” “Mary Oliver. Ocean Vuong. The sad ones.” She looked down. “Sorry. That’s weird.” “It’s not weird.” She looked up then, and for a second I saw all of them at once. The tiredness. The hope. The wall. “I should go,” she said abruptly. “I have class.” She left money on the table and walked out. That night I googled things I shouldn’t have. Memory gaps. Different personalities. DID. I closed the tab. I was not her doctor. I was not her friend. I was just the guy who gave her free water. She came back on Thursday. This time it was the sharp one. She didn’t sit. She ordered to go. “Black coffee,” she said. “Large.” “You got it,” I said. I made it myself. When I handed it to her, our fingers brushed. She didn’t pull away. “Thanks,” she said. Then, quieter: “You don’t have to be nice to me.” “I want to be,” I said before I could stop myself. She stared at me. The wall came down, just a little. “Why?” “Because you looked tired last week. And today you look tired too.” Something in her face broke. Not crying. Just… tired. “It’s complicated.” “I figured,” I said. “I’m good at complicated.” That got the smallest, realest smile out of her. The soft one. “I have to go,” she said. “See you, Maya.” She paused. “You remembered.” I did. When the door closed, I realized I was still holding the tip jar like it could anchor me. I don’t know what I was doing. I knew she was struggling. I knew I had no business getting involved. But the next morning I left a sticky note on the corner table before my shift. In case you come back. — D She did. Three days later. Rain again. She was sitting there, reading, with the note tucked into her book. She looked up when I approached. Soft voice. “You write nice.” “Thanks,” I said. “You read nice.” She smiled. Really smiled. And just like that, I was in trouble. The good kind. The kind where you meet someone and suddenly the world has more color. I didn’t know about the alters yet. Not all of them. I didn’t know how hard it would get. I didn’t know I’d have to learn four different ways to say I’m here. I just knew that Maya — all of her — kept coming back to my table. And I kept being there when she did.