"In the softest corners of routine, we sometimes find what we never knew we needed."
Yuna returned to Mocha Moon the next morning.
She didn't plan it that way. She told herself she was just looking for somewhere warm to study, somewhere quieter than the student café near the literature building, where voices bounced off glass walls and lattes were made without eye contact. But she knew that wasn't the truth.
She'd been thinking about the way Eli had written that quote on her cup. Not her name. Not a generic compliment. A quote — thoughtful, specific, intimate in a way that unsettled her. Like he had seen something in her and responded without saying so.
The sky outside was pale gray. The kind of morning that clung to your sleeves and made the world feel softer. She walked slower than usual, her boots scuffing gently against the sidewalk as she pulled her sweater tighter around her.
Mocha Moon was quieter today.
Inside, jazz played low again — something instrumental and old, full of soft piano and raindrop rhythm. The lighting was gentle, golden, like the café had its own sun. A few regulars occupied the tables: a girl scribbling in a sketchbook, a couple sharing earbuds and a croissant, a man reading the newspaper with a frown that suggested the headlines hadn't changed.
Eli stood behind the counter, focused on pouring steamed milk into a small ceramic cup. His concentration was precise, calm, and beautiful in the way quiet people often are when they don't know they're being watched.
Yuna hovered in the doorway for a second longer than she meant to.
When his eyes met hers, he didn't startle. He just lifted his gaze like he'd expected her.
"You came back," he said.
"I did."
No awkwardness. Just that easy honesty again. That calm.
"Same as yesterday?" he asked.
She nodded. "Unless you have something better."
That smile again — soft, not quite a full curve of the lips, but something lived-in. "I might."
He didn't ask her name this time. He just started making the drink, quiet in the way that left space for her to exist.
Yuna sat by the same window. She opened her journal again — still no ink on the page — and stared outside at the slow-moving clouds. She didn't realize she was holding her breath until he set the mug down in front of her.
The foam had been shaped into a perfect heart.
She looked up at him.
"This one's a lavender oat latte," he said. "Good for mornings that feel like fog."
Yuna gave a small, genuine smile — the first one that felt real in weeks. "Thank you."
He hesitated, then slipped a folded napkin onto the table beside her cup.
Without a word, he walked back behind the counter.
She waited a moment before unfolding it.
"Be patient with yourself. Nothing in nature blooms all year."— unknown
She stared at the words, heart twisting in her chest.
Something about the quote made her want to cry. Not because it was sad — but because it was true. Because no one had said that to her before. Because maybe, just maybe, she needed to hear it.
She didn't write in her journal that morning. But she opened it and pressed the napkin between the pages like a flower she wanted to keep.
Days passed gently, and the routine took shape like it had been waiting for her.
Wake up. Walk slowly. Stop by Mocha Moon.
Sometimes Eli would recommend a new drink. Sometimes he'd offer a pastry she never asked for. Always — always — he'd write a quote on her napkin. It became their thing. Their version of conversation.
She never asked where he found the quotes. Some were poetic. Some philosophical. Some quietly humorous in a way that made her laugh softly to herself. All of them felt...right.
Sometimes she stayed for an hour. Sometimes more.
She never brought her laptop, only her journal. And even if the pages stayed blank, the silence didn't feel wasted.
Eli rarely made small talk. But he always made space.
And in a world that had grown so loud, Yuna realized how rare — how beautiful — that was.
One afternoon, she came in late.
It had rained, and her hair clung to her cheeks, her cardigan soaked at the sleeves. She almost didn't stop by, but her feet carried her to the café like they'd decided for her.
Eli looked up as the bell chimed.
"You okay?" he asked, his brows drawing together slightly.
She nodded, brushing hair from her face. "Just forgot an umbrella."
He disappeared for a moment and returned with a towel, handing it to her without a word.
She blinked. "Thank you."
He nodded toward the register. "Let me make you something warm."
She sat at her usual seat and watched the way he worked. Everything about him felt slow in the best way — like he moved through the world with intention. No rush. No wasted effort. Just presence.
When he placed the drink in front of her, he didn't offer a napkin this time. Just a smile. Small. Real.
"This one's cinnamon and honey," he said. "Tastes like a hug."
Yuna curled her fingers around the mug and let the warmth sink into her skin. She took a sip and closed her eyes. It did taste like a hug. Like something her heart had forgotten how to ask for.
She opened her eyes and looked at him.
"You always know what to make," she said.
He shrugged, modest. "Maybe I just pay attention."
Those words sat between them like a gift.
That night, back in her apartment, Yuna sat on her bed with the journal open.
Mina was still out — probably watching dramas at her friend's place or putting together outfits for her fashion class.
Yuna stared at the blank page.
Then, without planning to, she picked up her pen.
She didn't write about the city she'd left or the boy who'd broken her heart before she even knew what love meant.
She wrote about steam on glass. About quiet jazz. About a man with eyes like dusk who never asked, but always noticed.
She wrote:
"Today, I didn't feel like I was disappearing."
It wasn't poetry.
It wasn't a story.
But it was a beginning.
And for now, that was enough.