FATED AT 2AM

A Memory I Haven't Lived Yet

London wind is a bastard. It’s 9 PM and it’s screaming outside, hurling rain at my windows like I personally pissed it off. 43rd floor. Nothing but glass. The city below looks like a busted TV—grey, static, neon smeared across the screen. The Thames is just a black s***h cutting through all that concrete.

Inside it’s warm. Too warm. It smells like whatever expensive cologne my manager forgot here and the chemical cleaner they use on the marble. Fancy. Dead.

I’m standing against the glass. My reflection stares back. It looks tired. It looks fake. 4.2 million people think they know this guy. I’ve got awards I haven’t unpacked. Sold-out arenas.

My phone’s probably blowing up right now. I’m not checking. It won’t fill this. This hole. Right here. [tap chest] Like someone carved a piece out with a spoon. You don’t post that on i********:.

I grab my phone anyway. The screen stabs my eyes. Notifications piled up. Hearts, fire emojis, MARRY ME ELIO. Right. Cool. I scroll. Feel nothing. They love the guy in the music videos. The one with the eyeliner and the sad songs.

They don’t know me. The me who can’t sleep at 3 AM because my brain won’t shut the hell up. The me who feels like I’m waiting for something I don’t even have a name for.

Screw it. I grab my coat. The heavy wool one. Don’t call Marcus. Don’t text security. I just… leave. Elevator, lobby, street. No car. Hood down, too.

If someone recognizes me, so what. I need the rain. I need my boots hitting wet concrete. I need to feel cold.

I walk. No destination. Just walk. And somehow I end up here. Again. This alley. Found it yesterday by accident. Took a wrong turn after that bullshit label meeting. There’s a cafe. Tiny. The sign’s half broken. No name. Just a coffee cup painted on the door.

The bell screams when I push it open. Inside it’s hot. Smells like coffee and wet wool and that damp, old-building smell. It feels… I don’t know. Familiar. Which is stupid. I’ve lived in London seven years. Never saw this street until yesterday.

I sit in the back. Behind the big plant. Don’t want to be seen. “Uh. Hazelnut latte,” I tell the guy. My voice comes out rusty. “Extra cinnamon. Please.”

He nods. Starts the machine. And then it happens.

This cold line runs down my spine. Not from the weather. From inside. Like someone just walked over my grave, like my mum used to say. Like someone, somewhere, just inhaled at the exact same second I did.

It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. But my chest goes tight. Like there’s a string tied around my ribs and someone just yanked it. Hard.

He sets the mug down. Ceramic. Chipped at the rim. Steam curling off it. I take a sip before I can think. Cinnamon first. Sharp. Then the hazelnut. Warm. Heavy. It’s good. It’s really good. But it’s more than that.

It’s relief. Like when you’ve been frozen for hours and someone drops a blanket over you. Like a memory. But not mine.

I don’t think. I just pull out my phone. Take a picture. Cup on the old wood table. Rain on the window behind it. Blurry lights.

Open i********:. No filter. No caption plan. My team’s going to murder me.

Whatever. I type what’s actually in my head: A familiar taste in a strange city. Like a memory I haven’t lived yet. Do you feel this too? Hit post.

And then I just… sit there. Staring at it. I’m not waiting for likes. I don’t care. I’m waiting for… I don’t know. A reply? A sign? Something.

I lean back. My head hits the brick wall. Close my eyes. And for a second, the coffee smell is gone. Instead I smell jasmine. Which makes zero sense. It’s freezing. It’s London. It’s February. There’s no jasmine for miles.

That’s… summer. That’s heat. That’s some other place.

“Who are you,” I say out loud. Quiet. To no one. The jazz from the speaker almost drowns it out.

My chest tugs again. Same string. Tighter this time. Like whoever’s on the other end just heard me.

Am I losing it? Probably. Or maybe this is what finding it feels like.

Somewhere. I don’t know where. But somewhere, there’s a girl staring at my post right now. In the dark. On her phone. Her thumb is probably resting over my face.

I don’t know her name. I don’t know her face. But I know she’s there.

I take another sip. Watch the rain.I don’t know that my ‘memory’ is awake right now. In some other city. In some other timezone. Saying my name to an empty room.

But I feel it.

The game’s started. And we’re both screwed.