Chapter 7 — Coffee and Confusion
1463 Words
Zoe’s Diary
Not me still thinking coffee would fix me.
That’s how this morning started — me convincing myself that a paper cup full of caffeine could rinse last night out of my bloodstream.
Spoiler: it didn’t.
It’s late morning now, campus humming in that lazy, in-between way where no one’s fully awake but everyone’s pretending to be. The café is half full — mostly students hunched over laptops, earbuds in, faces lit by screens instead of sunlight.
I took a corner seat, by the window, where the light hits just enough to feel alive but not enough to burn. There’s a chipped mug in front of me and my notebook lying open beside it, pages already messy with crossed-out words.
It’s strange. I keep trying to write about normal things — classes, deadlines, Ava’s ridiculous playlist obsession — but my mind keeps slipping back into silver light and gray-blue eyes.
Every time the espresso machine hisses, I flinch a little. It sounds too much like the rush of rain from the dream.
I told myself I wouldn’t write about him today. That I’d take a break from... whatever this is.
But here I am again. Writing him into the margins like a compulsion.
I’m not sure what scares me more — the idea that he’s just a dream, or that he isn’t.
When I woke up this morning, I half expected to see him standing by my window. That’s how vivid it felt. I even caught myself whispering his name — except I didn’t know it yet then. He hasn’t told me. Not in that way.
Still, the sound of his voice has been echoing in my head all day. “You always find me.”
I don’t know what that means, but it plays on a loop — soft, insistent, like a secret I’ve almost remembered.
I try to distract myself by people-watching.
There’s a couple at the next table, clearly new — they can’t stop smiling. A girl with dyed pink hair is sketching something intricate in a notebook that looks a lot like mine. A guy in a campus hoodie is asleep on his open textbook.
Everyone here feels so real, so here.
And me? I feel like I’m somewhere else entirely. Like part of me is still standing on that beach, holding a hand that doesn’t exist.
I can hear Ava’s voice in my head even when she’s not here:
“Zoe, you’re such a romantic loner. You probably dreamed him up because you’re touch-starved and running on cold brew and wishful thinking.”
She’d probably be right, if it didn’t feel like more than that.
I tried googling it again this morning. “Recurring dreams of the same person.”
Every result gave me something different — from Freud to astrology to Reddit strangers arguing about twin flames.
None of it fits. Because none of them talk about what it’s like to wake up crying for someone you’ve never met.
The barista just called someone’s name, and for a second — just a split second — I thought she said his.
I froze, heart stuttering. My brain instantly filled in the rest, like it wanted to conjure him out of the steam and noise.
But it wasn’t him. Of course it wasn’t. Just some guy picking up an oat milk latte and scrolling his phone.
I exhaled, laughing quietly at myself.
“Get a grip, Zoe,” I muttered under my breath.
The girl at the counter glanced at me like I was talking to her. I smiled awkwardly and ducked back to my notebook.
My handwriting looks different lately. More urgent. Slanted. Like my thoughts are running faster than my hand can catch them.
I keep trying to make sense of last night.
When I said don't you dare or when he said, You found me, it didn’t sound like a metaphor. It sounded literal. Like I’d actually found something lost.
What if — no, this sounds ridiculous — what if dreams aren’t made up but remembered? Like my mind is replaying something it can’t admit happened.
Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe this is what happens when your brain mixes hormones and imagination and loneliness into a blender.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something unfinished between us. Something that keeps pulling me back every time I close my eyes.
Ava texted a few minutes ago.
Ava: you alive?
Me: barely. caffeine is helping.
Ava: dream guy visit again?
Me: maybe. it’s complicated.
Ava: zoe pls. you’re writing a whole novella in your head. come to the gym later. sweat it out.
Me: maybe.
She added a heart emoji and a gif of some guy doing crunches.
I love her, I do — she’s the realist I need, even when she doesn’t understand me. But sometimes I wish she could feel what I do. That electric ache of remembering someone who doesn’t exist.
There’s something comforting about cafés. The white noise. The low music. The steady rhythm of people living their small, ordinary lives.
It makes me think that maybe I could fold myself back into this version of reality — be normal again.
But even here, surrounded by movement and chatter, he’s everywhere.
In the reflection of the window, I see flashes — a silhouette that looks like his, a shape my mind keeps trying to match. When I blink, it’s gone.
I think about the way he looked at me — not with desire, not even curiosity, but recognition. That kind of gaze feels impossible to forget.
I can still feel it, the way his eyes held mine, like a tether, the way he kissed me like I really meant something to him.
My coffee’s gone cold.
The barista’s changed shifts. Someone just turned the playlist over to soft acoustic covers, and one of the songs — I swear — uses the same chord progression I heard in the dream.
It’s just a song. Just coincidence.
But my skin prickles anyway.
Maybe that’s what scares me — that I’m starting to see signs where there aren’t any.
That I’m turning into one of those people who talks about “energies” and “vibrations” like they’re proof of something.
I’ve always been the rational one. The observer. The writer. I’m supposed to interpret things, not fall into them.
So why does it feel like the world is whispering back?
It’s been an hour. I haven’t written anything coherent, just fragments.
His eyes, his hands, his voice, his tongue.
The sound of waves.
Don’t wake up.
You always find me.
I look at the words and feel embarrassed, like someone could look over my shoulder and see right through me.
But there’s also relief. Because the page doesn’t laugh, doesn’t judge. It just takes whatever I can’t say out loud.
Maybe that’s why I keep writing him down — not to remember him, but to anchor him somewhere. So I can tell myself it’s just fiction, even when it doesn’t feel like it.
The door opens, and a draft of cool air sweeps through the café. I glance up out of habit — and for one dizzy second, my stomach flips.
There’s a man walking in, maybe late twenties, tall, dark hair, calm presence. He doesn’t look like him exactly — his eyes are brown, not gray — but the way he moves, slow and certain, makes my pulse stutter anyway.
I watch him order, my heart thudding stupidly, and force myself to look away.
“Get a grip,” I whisper again.
Still, for a full minute, I can’t breathe right.
That’s how I know I’m in trouble.
Because part of me doesn’t want to stop seeing him — even in strangers.
Ava texted again:
Ava: u at the café still?
Me: yeah. writing.
Ava: ok dream girl. get ur cute butt to the gym by 6. no excuses.
I smile, typing back a halfhearted promise.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I do need to get out of my head.
But how do you escape something that lives inside you ?
I finish my coffee. The last sip tastes bitter and burnt, but I drink it anyway. I like the sting — it reminds me I’m awake.
Outside, students are moving between classes, sunlight flashing off car windows and backpacks. The world feels bright, loud, full of motion.
And I’m standing here, feeling both too full and too empty at once.
Before I leave, I scribble one last line in my notebook:
If he’s only a dream, why does the world feel lonelier when I’m awake?
Then I close it, tuck it under my arm, and walk out into the noise, pretending I’m not looking for him in every face that passes.
- Writer
