Entry # 12: January 9, 2030...
787 Words
Cass Novak appears to believe Shang Java is a daily ritual.
At first it was occasional.
Now it’s routine.
Late morning.
Black coffee.
No sugar.
No milk.
Just bitterness.
Psychopath behavior.
He’s annoyingly consistent.
And annoyingly handsome.
Tall. Relaxed posture. That accent doing at least half the work.
The other half is the calm way he carries himself, like nothing in the world is urgent enough to rush for.
Which is weird.
Most people who walk into Shang Java are running from something.
Cass seems… settled.
Worse, he’s polite.
Not performative polite.
Actual polite.
He remembers Melanie’s name.
He asks JB how the “documentary conspiracy empire” is coming along.
He tips well.
Especially me.
Suspicious.
Auré shows up twice a week now.
Sometimes three.
Always around the same time.
Always when Cass is already there.
They start sitting across from each other.
Then side by side.
Then sometimes leaning toward each other when the conversation gets good.
And I notice things.
Small things.
Auré’s nose wrinkles when she laughs around him.
She twirls a strand of her hair when she’s listening closely.
Sometimes she taps the side of her mug when she’s thinking.
She does that with him a lot.
I didn’t realize how many little habits she has.
Or maybe I just didn’t notice before.
Observation is not jealousy.
Important distinction.
The more I watch them, the more obvious it becomes.
They click.
Not explosively.
Comfortably.
Which is worse.
Explosive things burn out.
Comfortable things last.
I bring it up with Dr. Elson.
“Tell me what’s bothering you,” he says.
Therapists always say that like they don’t already know the answer.
So I tell him about Cass.
About the coffee shop.
About how often he shows up.
About how Auré seems to orbit him now.
Dr. Elson nods slowly.
“And how does that make you feel?”
“I’m observing,” I say.
He waits.
Silence stretches across the room.
Therapists weaponize silence.
Eventually I sigh.
“Fine. It’s irritating.”
“Why?”
Because she was straddling my lap under fireworks three nights before he ever showed up.
That’s why.
Instead I say:
“I don’t trust him.”
“Has he given you a reason not to?”
“No.”
Dr. Elson nods again.
“Then perhaps the issue isn’t him.”
Rude.
He asks about New Year’s Eve.
Which is unfortunate.
Because once I start describing it, the memory comes back in full resolution.
The bleachers.
The fireworks.
The way Auré’s hands slid into my hair.
The way she gasped when I pulled her closer.
The way she—
“Tag,” Dr. Elson says gently.
I stop talking.
He tilts his head.
“That sounds like a very intense moment.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“And you stopped it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I stare at the carpet.
Because she said the wrong name.
Because I wanted her to say Tag.
Because I’m apparently insane.
“I panicked,” I say.
Dr. Elson studies me for a moment.
“You’re allowed to want people,” he says.
“I know.”
“You’re also allowed to let people choose you.”
I snort.
“That’s not really my style.”
TapDat has been… educational.
Apparently half the population opens conversations with the conversational grace of a drunk raccoon.
Men.
Women.
Couples.
Equality is beautiful.
One woman opened with:
“Bet you look good on your knees.”
Bold.
Incorrect.
Swipe left.
Then there’s Paris.
The guy with the absurd oatmilk lavender honey blonde espresso latte.
Paris messaged first.
While I was at work.
I don’t see it until later.
“Serious question. As a professional coffee judge, how offensive is an oatmilk lavender honey blonde espresso latte?”
I grin.
Finally.
Someone funny.
I type back:
“Legally I’m required to report that beverage to the authorities.”
Then I toss the phone aside and scroll through other matches.
Conversations blur together.
Flirting.
Sarcasm.
Mild chaos.
None of it sticks.
Because eventually the same realization creeps back in.
None of these people are Auré.
Which is extremely inconvenient.
Tonight I decide to do something productive.
Which in this case means leaving my room and talking to her like a normal human being.
Totally casual.
No agenda.
Halfway down the hall, my phone buzzes.
Auré.
Hey! Just a heads up. Company coming over later. Movie night.
Interesting.
I type back:
Who’s the victim?
Before she answers, there’s a knock at the door.
Perfect timing.
I open it.
Cass Novak is standing there holding a bag of popcorn.
He smiles.
“Well,” he says.
“You must be Tag.”
- Writer
