megumi had this strange attachment to the little café wedged at the end of the street near jujutsu high. not because the coffee was good—he made that clear more than once. “it all tastes the same,” he’d say, voice flat, unimpressed. burnt beans, overpriced milk, drinks with names that sounded more like spells than beverages. he didn’t understand why people got so attached to places like this. why they made habits out of things that didn’t matter.

but he still showed up.

every day. without skipping. black hoodie pulled up like a shield, one headphone dangling, the other loosely tucked in. sometimes he brought a book he wouldn’t read. sometimes he just stood there, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking to the same spot on the wall like he hadn’t already memorized every detail. he never changed his order. something warm, nothing fancy. not for the taste—but for the ritual. for the excuse to stay.

it wasn’t the coffee, he didn’t even like the damn coffee. he came because of you.

the barista with the tired smile who somehow remembered his order anyway. who always asked how his day was, even when he barely looked up, even when all he gave you was a half-shrug or that barely-there “fine.” you never pushed. never asked more than he was willing to give. and maybe that’s why he came back.

because in a world that asked too much of him, you never did.