I’d arrived thirteen minutes early because my penthouse feels like a mausoleum. And waiting there meant staring at my phone willing it to buzz with a cancellation text.
"Usual?" The barista didn't look up from the espresso machine.
I nodded.
She started making Elena's coffee first. Oat milk latte. Extra shot. Cinnamon dust on top. The order I'd memorized like a prayer and repeated.
Then mine. Black. Simple. The kind of order that didn't require thought.
I paid. Carry both cups to our corner table. The one by the window where morning light cut through glass at the right angle.
Where I'd sat every day Elena didn't show and convinced myself that consistency mattered even when no one witnessed it.
Now I sit waiting with two coffees and the hollow ache of hope that still feels dangerous
