One cup of coffee
-
Hillary Ibe
- Posts: 8
- Joined: 28 Apr 2025, 07:41
- Currently Reading:
- Bookshelf Size: 0
One cup of coffee
Ella was always five minutes early to the café on 3rd Street. She liked the calm before the crowd — the scent of fresh coffee, the soft jazz playing, and her favorite table by the window.
One rainy Thursday, her routine changed.
As she reached for her coffee, another hand brushed hers. Startled, she looked up into warm brown eyes.
“Oh—sorry,” he smiled. “I thought this was mine.”
“It’s okay,” she replied, her cheeks flushing. “Maybe it was meant to be shared?”
They laughed.
His name was Daniel. Architect. New in town. She was a writer, forever chasing inspiration.
That day turned into more — more coffee, more stories, more laughs. And every Thursday, rain or shine, they met at the same spot.
One morning, he slid a small note across the table:
"Want to share more than just coffee?"
She smiled and wrote back:
"Only if it's forever."
Daniel didn’t believe in fate — not in the stars, not in signs, and certainly not in "meant to be." He believed in structures, plans, and blueprints. Things that made sense.
Until her.
He’d passed the café on 3rd Street a dozen times before ever stepping inside. Always in a rush, always with too much on his plate — renovations, deadlines, blueprints to redraw. But that morning, it had rained, and he ducked inside to escape it.
He didn't plan to sit at that window table. He just liked the light. Natural lighting helped his sketches — especially the ones he didn’t tell his colleagues about. The personal ones. Of parks, forgotten places, and sometimes, faces he couldn’t quite finish.
And then she showed up. Ella. A flash of something warm in a world of grays. Her hair damp from the rain, her fingers clutching a journal like it held the answers to life. She looked like she belonged to the story he hadn't figured out how to draw yet.
When they reached for the same coffee, it should’ve been awkward.
But she smiled.
And when she agreed to share the table, he swore something in the room shifted. A quiet gravity pulled them together.
Over the next few weeks, he found himself designing projects faster, just to make time for Thursday mornings. His team joked that he smiled more, that he hummed to himself. He blamed the coffee. He knew better.
Ella fascinated him. She didn’t just listen — she felt. She turned moments into metaphors. When he talked about buildings, she’d ask what they whispered before they fell apart. When he told her about his childhood in a crumbling seaside town, she said his memories were poems in disguise.
Daniel had never met anyone who made him want to rewrite his blueprints.
So he wrote her a note. A simple one.
“Want to share more than just coffee?”
She said yes.
They became something steady, something real. She called him her "soft place to land." He called her his "unexpected design."
But life, like love, doesn’t always follow the plan.
One morning, Ella didn’t show up. No call. No message. Just an empty seat and cold coffee.
Worried, Daniel tried everything — texts, calls, walking by her apartment. Nothing. Days turned into a week. The barista asked where she’d gone. Daniel had no answer.
Then one rainy night, as he was locking up the old library project he’d been restoring, he found something wedged in the doorframe — a soggy envelope with his name.
Inside was a note. Her handwriting.
“Daniel,
I’m sorry I vanished. I didn’t mean to hurt you.
I had to leave. Family emergency. One I didn’t see coming.
I didn’t want to pull you into my chaos.
But I thought of you every day. I still do.
If this reaches you, and you’re still waiting,
Meet me at our table.
One last Thursday.
If you’re not there, I’ll understand.
Love,
Ella.”
He read the letter twice, heart pounding like it had its own storm.
Tomorrow was Thursday.
And Daniel, the man who never believed in fate, was about to bet everything on one last cup of coffee.
It was Thursday.
The rain had returned, tapping gently on the windows like a reminder — or a promise.
Daniel arrived early. Too early. He sat at their table, fingers tracing the rim of his coffee cup, eyes watching the door with the kind of hope that felt like holding your breath for too long.
He didn’t know if she would come.
He only knew one thing: if she did, he wouldn’t let her go again.
The minutes ticked by.
7:25 a.m.
7:40 a.m.
7:52 a.m.
He sighed, feeling the weight of an ending he didn’t want.
Just as he reached for his coat, the bell above the café door rang.
Daniel turned.
There she was — standing in the doorway, rain dripping from her coat, hair slightly windswept, eyes searching... until they met his.
She froze. He stood.
Neither moved for a second. Then they did — fast. The kind of steps you take when your heart moves before your feet.
Ella reached him first, dropping her bag and falling into his arms like she never wanted to be anywhere else. Her voice was soft and trembling.
“I didn’t know if you’d still be here.”
“I didn’t know if you’d come,” he whispered.
They pulled back just enough to look at each other, soaked in the warmth of the moment. She looked older somehow — not in years, but in heartache. And he saw it. All of it. But he also saw the same girl who’d once offered to share a coffee with a stranger.
“I had to take care of my dad,” she said. “He got sick, and I just… disappeared.”
“You could’ve told me.”
“I thought I had to fix everything alone,” she admitted, “But the truth is… everything felt worse without you.”
Daniel smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a tiny, folded napkin — yellowed and worn.
It was his note: “Want to share more than just coffee?”
“I’ve been carrying this every day,” she said.
He laughed. “So have I.”
From his wallet, he pulled out her reply:
“Only if it’s forever.”
Right then, the barista placed two drinks on the table — their usual order. No one asked. No one needed to.
Ella looked up at him, tears in her eyes and a smile on her lips.
“So… still want to share forever?”
Daniel leaned in, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “Every Thursday. And every day in between.”
That day, the café felt warmer. The rain softer. The world, a little more in place.
One rainy Thursday, her routine changed.
As she reached for her coffee, another hand brushed hers. Startled, she looked up into warm brown eyes.
“Oh—sorry,” he smiled. “I thought this was mine.”
“It’s okay,” she replied, her cheeks flushing. “Maybe it was meant to be shared?”
They laughed.
His name was Daniel. Architect. New in town. She was a writer, forever chasing inspiration.
That day turned into more — more coffee, more stories, more laughs. And every Thursday, rain or shine, they met at the same spot.
One morning, he slid a small note across the table:
"Want to share more than just coffee?"
She smiled and wrote back:
"Only if it's forever."
Daniel didn’t believe in fate — not in the stars, not in signs, and certainly not in "meant to be." He believed in structures, plans, and blueprints. Things that made sense.
Until her.
He’d passed the café on 3rd Street a dozen times before ever stepping inside. Always in a rush, always with too much on his plate — renovations, deadlines, blueprints to redraw. But that morning, it had rained, and he ducked inside to escape it.
He didn't plan to sit at that window table. He just liked the light. Natural lighting helped his sketches — especially the ones he didn’t tell his colleagues about. The personal ones. Of parks, forgotten places, and sometimes, faces he couldn’t quite finish.
And then she showed up. Ella. A flash of something warm in a world of grays. Her hair damp from the rain, her fingers clutching a journal like it held the answers to life. She looked like she belonged to the story he hadn't figured out how to draw yet.
When they reached for the same coffee, it should’ve been awkward.
But she smiled.
And when she agreed to share the table, he swore something in the room shifted. A quiet gravity pulled them together.
Over the next few weeks, he found himself designing projects faster, just to make time for Thursday mornings. His team joked that he smiled more, that he hummed to himself. He blamed the coffee. He knew better.
Ella fascinated him. She didn’t just listen — she felt. She turned moments into metaphors. When he talked about buildings, she’d ask what they whispered before they fell apart. When he told her about his childhood in a crumbling seaside town, she said his memories were poems in disguise.
Daniel had never met anyone who made him want to rewrite his blueprints.
So he wrote her a note. A simple one.
“Want to share more than just coffee?”
She said yes.
They became something steady, something real. She called him her "soft place to land." He called her his "unexpected design."
But life, like love, doesn’t always follow the plan.
One morning, Ella didn’t show up. No call. No message. Just an empty seat and cold coffee.
Worried, Daniel tried everything — texts, calls, walking by her apartment. Nothing. Days turned into a week. The barista asked where she’d gone. Daniel had no answer.
Then one rainy night, as he was locking up the old library project he’d been restoring, he found something wedged in the doorframe — a soggy envelope with his name.
Inside was a note. Her handwriting.
“Daniel,
I’m sorry I vanished. I didn’t mean to hurt you.
I had to leave. Family emergency. One I didn’t see coming.
I didn’t want to pull you into my chaos.
But I thought of you every day. I still do.
If this reaches you, and you’re still waiting,
Meet me at our table.
One last Thursday.
If you’re not there, I’ll understand.
Love,
Ella.”
He read the letter twice, heart pounding like it had its own storm.
Tomorrow was Thursday.
And Daniel, the man who never believed in fate, was about to bet everything on one last cup of coffee.
It was Thursday.
The rain had returned, tapping gently on the windows like a reminder — or a promise.
Daniel arrived early. Too early. He sat at their table, fingers tracing the rim of his coffee cup, eyes watching the door with the kind of hope that felt like holding your breath for too long.
He didn’t know if she would come.
He only knew one thing: if she did, he wouldn’t let her go again.
The minutes ticked by.
7:25 a.m.
7:40 a.m.
7:52 a.m.
He sighed, feeling the weight of an ending he didn’t want.
Just as he reached for his coat, the bell above the café door rang.
Daniel turned.
There she was — standing in the doorway, rain dripping from her coat, hair slightly windswept, eyes searching... until they met his.
She froze. He stood.
Neither moved for a second. Then they did — fast. The kind of steps you take when your heart moves before your feet.
Ella reached him first, dropping her bag and falling into his arms like she never wanted to be anywhere else. Her voice was soft and trembling.
“I didn’t know if you’d still be here.”
“I didn’t know if you’d come,” he whispered.
They pulled back just enough to look at each other, soaked in the warmth of the moment. She looked older somehow — not in years, but in heartache. And he saw it. All of it. But he also saw the same girl who’d once offered to share a coffee with a stranger.
“I had to take care of my dad,” she said. “He got sick, and I just… disappeared.”
“You could’ve told me.”
“I thought I had to fix everything alone,” she admitted, “But the truth is… everything felt worse without you.”
Daniel smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a tiny, folded napkin — yellowed and worn.
It was his note: “Want to share more than just coffee?”
“I’ve been carrying this every day,” she said.
He laughed. “So have I.”
From his wallet, he pulled out her reply:
“Only if it’s forever.”
Right then, the barista placed two drinks on the table — their usual order. No one asked. No one needed to.
Ella looked up at him, tears in her eyes and a smile on her lips.
“So… still want to share forever?”
Daniel leaned in, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “Every Thursday. And every day in between.”
That day, the café felt warmer. The rain softer. The world, a little more in place.
