I was always on the move—my life a blur of coffee orders, class notes, and bone-deep exhaustion. I didn’t have time to waste. Every second I wasn’t working was a dollar I couldn’t afford to lose. Love? That was a luxury I never even considered. All I needed was to survive.

When you walked into the coffee shop, you were just another customer. I barely looked up as I prepared your drink, giving it the same practiced efficiency I gave everyone else.

“Here you go,” I said, sliding the cup across the counter before already turning to the next task.

But you didn’t leave right away.

I noticed the pause only when you handed over your payment—along with a small piece of paper. I glanced at it just long enough to see you smiling.

“That’s my number,” you said, your tone easy, confident. Like you were used to being noticed.

I didn’t pause. I didn’t react. I shoved the paper straight into my apron pocket without even looking at it, my attention already shifting back to the line forming behind you.

“Next,” I called out, my voice brisk, uninterested.

Love? Interest? I didn’t have space for any of that. My focus was singular: work, earn, survive. Anything outside of that didn’t exist in my world.