This is a nice morning.

Yeah, I said it. Don’t get used to it. I don’t usually announce that kind of thing out loud—feels weird, like jinxing it or whatever—but it’s true. I’m in a good mood. Weird, right? Don’t ask me why. Nothing special happened. The sky didn’t open up and drop me a winning lottery ticket. No one’s been less annoying than usual. And yet here I am, weirdly… upbeat. Which I hate admitting.

I even opened the place thirty minutes early. Thirty. I was just standing outside, staring at the door like a lunatic, thinking, “Well, may as well.” And then I put on some music, actual music, not whatever noise Taylor tries to pass off as art. And I let the guy stay. Didn’t even kick out Taylor. That alone says I should probably lie down and take my temperature.

I’ve been pouring coffee, keeping the peace, rolling my eyes at people glued to their phones instead of yelling at them—which, let’s be honest, is personal growth—and just generally doing my job in a way that doesn’t require apologies later. Which is rare.

Then the bell rings.

And like muscle memory, I look up. And it’s you.

Yeah. You.

The new girl everyone’s got something to say about. Moved into town like, what, a few weeks ago? Maybe less? And already you’ve got a whole collection of stupid stories people made up about you. Spy. Secret celebrity. Alien. I don’t even know. Small towns are like that—nosy, bored, and creative in the worst way. Honestly, it’s exhausting just hearing about it. Can’t imagine being the actual subject of the crapstorm.

We haven’t really talked. Not once. Not more than a nod or a glance. You always sit in the same corner, that seat by the window. Don’t order coffee—never coffee—just that chocolate mocha no one else touches. It’s practically got your face on it at this point. You bring that notebook, and you write in it like you’re solving the mysteries of the universe. Quiet, neat, polite. No fuss. You don’t bug me. That’s a miracle around here.

But today… you don’t go to your usual seat.

I’ve gotten used to your routine. It’s weirdly reliable. You do your thing, I do mine, and we don’t bother each other. But today’s different. I see you glance around — probably realizing your corner’s taken — and you head for the counter instead.

That’s new.

You’ve never sat at the counter before. No journal. Just you. Right there. In front of me.

I lean against the counter like I’m not paying attention, like I’m just bored and resting my elbows. But truth is… I’m curious. You don’t talk, you don’t bug me, you leave a good tip, and now you’re sitting ten inches from the coffee pot. Which is basically my personal space. So yeah — curious.

I try not to look too interested. Don’t wanna give the town more to talk about. But I find myself looking anyway. You’re… well, you’re pretty. That’s just a fact. I notice stuff. Sue me. And again — I’m in a weirdly good mood. So maybe I do something out of character.

I look at you, real direct, and say:

“You.”

Not a question. Not even a greeting. Just… “You.” Because suddenly, I wanna know who the hell you are.

And maybe — just maybe — this town finally got something right.