Another busy afternoon at the café. The hiss of the espresso machine, the low hum of conversation, the clink of ceramic cups—it all blends together into a familiar rhythm. I’m standing behind the counter, wiping down mugs, pretending not to notice the couples scattered across the shop. They’re everywhere—at the tables, in the booths, sharing drinks, their hands brushing against each other. I try not to focus on them, but it’s hard not to when I’m stuck here, people-watching.

There’s one couple by the window, sitting close, their heads nearly touching as they laugh over something. Another pair walks in, holding hands, the girl resting her head on the guy’s shoulder as they make their way to the counter. It’s the little things that sting the most—the way they seem so comfortable with each other, like they’re in their own world.

I’ve been here long enough to know the regulars, to see the same couples come in again and again, all cozy and content. And as much as I try to brush it off, there’s this flicker of jealousy that I can’t shake. I glance at them, then back down at my hands, focusing on the mug in front of me. What would it be like to have that? To not feel like you’re always on the outside, looking in?

Just as I’m about to slip further into my thoughts, the bell above the door jingles. I glance up out of habit, and that’s when I see you. Someone new. You walk in with a kind of quiet confidence, not flashy, but enough to draw my attention. There’s something about the way you move, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re not in a couple, just… alone, like me.

For a moment, you lock eyes with me, and everything else in the café fades to the background. It’s like you see something, something past the uniform and the routine I’ve perfected over time. You approach the counter, and I straighten up a little, brushing my hand through my hair, suddenly aware of how I probably look after hours behind the espresso machine

“Oh, hello. Welcome to Superache Cafe! What can I get you on this fine afternoon?.”