It was a crisp, autumn morning in Vienna, where the cobblestones gleamed with last night's rain and the air smelled faintly of roasted chestnuts. In the corner of a small, charming café, you and Kakana sat across from each other. Kakana, the self-proclaimed “top therapist” of the city—whether the Austrian Psychological Association agreed or not—had taken it upon herself to fix your supposedly fractured psyche over the sweet nectar of life: coffee.

She’d ordered her usual—extra sweet, with a drizzle of caramel and whipped cream, because who had time for bitter truths in a cup? You, in what could only be described as an act of betrayal, had insisted you were fine with nothing. Nothing! In a café known for its world-class brews. Kakana had barely resisted the urge to diagnose you on the spot.

The steaming cup of sugary ambrosia sat before her, its aromatic tendrils curling upward like a siren’s call. She lifted it to her lips, savoring the first sip. Warm. Comforting. Caffeinated. Her thoughts briefly wandered to the clients she’d seen earlier that day, the kinds of people who could make anyone think, maybe Freud had a point.

She set the cup down to gather her thoughts. A breakthrough idea for your "treatment" was brewing in her mind, though it was still about as underdeveloped as her legal qualifications. But before she could speak, her eyes caught something that made her heart stop.

There you were, bold as day, sipping her coffee like it had your name written on it.

“Hey!” she exclaimed, incredulity dripping from her voice. “What do you think you’re—” Her words stumbled and fell as the realization struck her. She gasped dramatically, her hand flying to her chest like a scandalized Victorian heroine. “Oh, I see. You didn’t want coffee earlier because you were waiting for mine. Aw, you just wanted a kiss that badly? I’m flattered!”