EPISODE 2: THE COFFEE
1082 Words
Grace Church Basement, Cedar Falls, Iowa.
Ana didn’t say "don’t do it."
She didn’t say "it’s just a phase."
She didn’t say "you’re overreacting."
She just slid the coffee across the table.
The mug was chipped on the side. White ceramic with faded blue flowers. Like Maya’s heart. Steam rose between them, fogging up the cold basement air and making the single overhead light look soft.
For thirty seconds, no one spoke.
Only the sound of rain hitting the small window above their heads. Monday evening in Iowa. The sky had been crying since 3 PM.
"You didn’t come here to fix me, did you?"
Maya finally whispered. Her voice cracked on the last word. Like glass about to break.
Ana wrapped both hands around her own mug. The heat burned her palms. It felt good. Real.
"No,"
Ana said.
"Then why are you here?"
Maya stared at the coffee. She hadn’t touched hers yet. Her fingers were wrapped around her arms instead, like she was holding herself together.
Ana took a slow breath. Day five of her depression cycle. The concrete in her chest was lighter today, but it was still there.
"Because someone stayed with me once,"
Ana said. Her voice was quiet. Steady.
"In a basement like this. When I thought ending it was the only door left."
Maya’s head snapped up. Her eyes were red, but dry.
"You?"
Ana nodded. Slow.
"I sat where you’re sitting. Same folding chair. Same chipped mug. Same thoughts."
She paused.
"Same rope in my backpack."
She tapped her own bag under the table. The canvas was worn. Inside was her Bible, her journal, and a bottle of prescription medication. No rope. Not anymore. But Maya didn’t need to know that yet.
The silence came back.
Heavy. But different now. Less like a wall between them. More like a blanket thrown over both of them.
Maya’s fingers finally moved. She reached out and touched the mug. Warm. Real. She didn’t drink yet. Just held it.
"I don’t want to talk about God,"
she said. Defiant. Tired. Sixteen years old and already so tired.
"Then we won’t,"
Ana replied.
"We’ll just drink coffee. And breathe."
She pushed a folded paper napkin across the table. The cheap brown kind from the church kitchen. On it, in Ana’s messy handwriting:
"You are too anointed to die."
Maya didn’t cry. Not yet. She just picked up the napkin with both hands. Held it like it was the only solid thing in the room. Her thumb traced the words.
"Did it work?"
Maya asked.
"When someone said that to you?"
Ana smiled. Small. Sad.
"Not that day. I still went home and stared at the ceiling for six hours. But the next morning, I woke up. And the morning after that. And eventually the words stopped sounding like a lie."
Outside, a car drove past on University Avenue. The rain kept falling. Inside the basement of Grace Church, two girls sat at a folding table.
One choosing to stay.
One choosing, for the first time in months, to not leave.
Yet.
Maya looked up from her coffee.
"You’re here,"
she said. Like she couldn’t believe it.
"I saw you lead on Sunday. Your voice was shaking then too."
Ana nodded.
"I’m still shaking."
"You don’t look broken."
"That’s because I’m good at Sundays,"
Ana said.
"I’m bad at Mondays. And Tuesdays. And sometimes Wednesdays."
She took a sip of coffee. It was bitter. She didn’t add sugar.
"I have bipolar depression. Diagnosed three years ago. Day five today."
Maya blinked.
"You just... told me that."
"Yeah,"
Ana said.
"Because shame grows in the dark. And we’re done sitting in the dark."
Maya looked down at her coffee. Then, finally, she lifted it and took a sip. She made a face.
"This is terrible."
Ana laughed. It surprised both of them. A real sound in the basement.
"Pastor Mark makes it. He thinks ‘strong coffee’ means ‘burnt coffee.’"
Another small sound from Maya. Almost a laugh. Almost.
They sat like that for a while. Not talking. Just drinking terrible coffee and listening to the rain.
Ana didn’t push. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t quote verses. She just stayed.
That was the whole point. Galatians 6:2. Bear one another’s burdens.
After twenty minutes, Maya set the mug down.
"Can I keep the napkin?"
"Yes,"
Ana said.
"I have more."
Maya folded it carefully and tucked it into her hoodie pocket. Over her heart.
"I still feel it,"
she whispered.
"The wanting to be gone."
"I know,"
Ana said.
"Me too. Sometimes. It doesn’t go away just because we had coffee."
"Then why do it?"
"Because staying is a choice you make every day,"
Ana said.
"And today, you chose it. That matters."
Maya nodded. Once.
The basement door at the top of the stairs creaked open. Footsteps.
Pastor Mark’s voice called down.
"Ana? You still down there? Board meeting got moved to Wednesday. 7 PM. They want to discuss the support group."
Ana looked at Maya.
"You don’t have to come."
"I want to,"
Maya said. Quick. Like she was afraid if she waited, the courage would leave.
"Can I?"
"Yes,"
Ana said. Her chest felt lighter. Not fixed. But lighter.
"We’ll go together."
Pastor Mark’s footsteps went away. The door closed.
Maya stood up first. She left half the coffee in the mug.
"Thank you,"
she said.
"For not fixing me."
Ana stood too.
"Thank you for letting me sit with you."
They walked up the stairs together. Two steps at a time. The rain had slowed to a drizzle outside. The parking lot of Grace Church was empty except for Ana’s old Honda and Pastor Mark’s truck.
Before Maya got into her mom’s car, she turned back.
"Ana?"
"Yeah?"
"The napkin. It’s stupid, but... it helped."
Ana smiled. Really smiled this time.
"It’s not stupid. Words are anchors. Sometimes they’re the only thing that keeps us from drifting."
Maya got in the car. Ana watched until the taillights disappeared down University Avenue.
Then Ana got in her own car. She didn’t turn on the radio. She just sat there for a minute, hands on the wheel.
Day five. She was still here.
And so was Maya.
That night, Ana wrote in her journal:
She didn’t fix her. She sat with her. The board wants to shut us down on Wednesday. But today, one girl chose to stay. That’s enough for today.
She underlined the last sentence twice.
- Writer
