I stirred the sugar in my cup in slow, absent circles, my gaze fixed on the street beyond the window.
People passed in fragments—pairs arguing in whispers, solitary figures walking with their heads down, vendors calling out prices that no one bothered to answer. Chaos and silence existed side by side here, stitched together by habit. The glass between us was yellowed with age and spotted with mold, a quiet testament to how long this coffee shop had survived the world's decay.
I came here every day.
Not because the coffee was special. It wasn't. It was cheap, over-boiled, and far too sweet if you forgot to warn the owner. But this window—this exact table—offered something rare: constancy. In a world that had been broken and remade too many times, it was enough.
I took a sip and hissed softly as the heat bit my lips. Hot, clumsy, imperfect. Like always.
"Sir," a voice called gently from the counter, "would you like anything else?"
I looked up. The owner stood there with a patient smile, her back slightly bent with age. Her hair was streaked white, her hands stained permanently with coffee and sugar.
I returned her smile.
"No, madam. This is perfect. More than enough to sustain me."
She laughed, a warm, unguarded sound.
"You flatter an old woman. You know my coffee isn't better than any other. Common. Cheap. Ordinary."
I took another careful sip.
"That's why it's good."
She studied me for a moment, then leaned against the counter.
"You come here every day, child," she said. "Same time. Same seat. Tell me—what is your reason?"
She hesitated, then asked the question that mattered.
"Are you waiting for someone?"
My spoon stopped moving.
The sugar settled at the bottom of the cup.
Waiting.
I rolled the word around in my mind, searching for an answer that wouldn't expose too much. My fingers tightened slightly around the porcelain before I forced them to relax.
"You could say that," I replied at last. "Some reasons are better left unnamed."
The words came out softer than I expected. When I realized I was smiling, my ears burned, heat rushing to my face.
Even thinking of her did that to me.
Then—
A scent reached me.
Sweet and familiar. Vanilla softened by fruit, warm like sunlight on skin. My body reacted before my thoughts could catch up. I turned my head instinctively toward the window.
She was there.
Just beyond the glass, only a few meters away.
She stood taller than most around her, her posture relaxed yet alert, as if the world had not yet taught her to shrink. Her brown hair spilled past her shoulders in gentle curls, catching the dull daylight. Her eyes—dark and wide—moved with a curiosity that felt almost out of place in this era, as though she still expected the world to surprise her kindly.
Her face was slender, her features sharp enough to linger in memory long after she passed. When she smiled, even faintly, it felt like an unreasonable thing—something the world should not have been allowed to keep.
She wore a long pink dress with puffed cuffs, the fabric swaying just above her leather sandals. A white corset hugged her waist, neat and precise. On top of all that, she wore a long black overcoat, with golden embroidery on its edges. Over her shoulder hung a familiar jute bag, soon to be filled with vegetables and fruit.
She always came at this time.
Every day.
11:30 a.m.
That was why I came here.
The coffee shop gave me a clear view of the street—and of her. It asked nothing of me in return. I did not have to speak. I did not have to be brave. I only had to sit, and watch, and exist quietly in the same world she did.
I envied the produce she picked up from the stalls. At least they were allowed the warmth of her hands.
I had tried before. Many times.
To speak. To greet her. To become more than another passing shadow. But every attempt ended the same way: words dissolving before they reached my lips, my tongue turning heavy, useless. It felt as though language itself refused to help me cross that distance.
Still, I knew her.
I knew she was left-handed.
I knew her favorite fruit was strawberry, and that she chose potatoes before any other vegetable. I knew the rhythm of her steps, the way she paused when comparing prices, the exact moment she frowned in indecision.
I knew every perfume she used, and which days she wore none at all. I knew she rubbed beneath her right eye when troubled, and that she hated tomatoes with an unreasonable passion. I knew she fiddled with the ring on her left index finger whenever she hesitated.
I knew the vendors greeted her by name, and that they smiled more when she smiled back. They called her Annie.
I knew her real name was Anyia.
I knew all of this because I had watched her for a long time. Quietly. Carefully. From places where I could not be seen.
And yet—
To her, I was nothing.
I was the stranger reflected faintly in a shop window. The nameless man standing too close to the newspaper stand, the faceless presence passing her once, twice, a hundred times without leaving a trace.
I existed everywhere around her, and nowhere within her world.
Close enough for me.
Never close enough for her.
I raised the cup to my lips, taking in the final sip with a bitter taste. My eyes stared at the market in front of me with a taste for longing. And when my pink in this world of greys was gone, I left the shop too.
Because now, I had to go to the warehouse.