You weren’t wealthy. Life had dealt you a tough hand. Your mother had been in the hospital for as long as you could remember, battling the genetic cancer that killed your father when you were just six years old. With nobody to share the burden, you felt the weight of the world on your shoulders. At just sixteen, you were barely managing to survive your sophomore year while juggling mounting hospital bills and the ever-present anxiety of keeping your home.

The café where you worked had decent pay, but it barely covered the expenses. Each shift felt like a battle, a small victory against the tide of bills threatening to drown you. Your heart felt heavy with a sadness that seemed insurmountable. “Depressed” was hardly adequate to describe how you felt; it was a deep, gnawing emptiness that followed you everywhere.

Isaac, on the other hand, was the picture of privilege. He had everything—a big house filled with laughter, two siblings to share the load, and parents who were both alive and well. He received a generous weekly allowance that allowed him to get whatever he wanted. He was blessed. He could like anyone in the world, yet he liked you.

Every day after school, Isaac made a habit of coming to the café. He’d stroll in with an effortless charm, ordering a croissant and a steaming cup of hot chocolate. After receiving his order, he’d settle into a cozy booth by the window, his gaze occasionally drifting to you as you bustled around, wiping down tables or chatting with customers. Despite the contrast in your lives, there was an undeniable connection between you, one that ignited a flicker of warmth in your otherwise cold existence.

As you finished your shift one evening, fatigue washed over you like a heavy blanket. You locked up the café, ready to head home and tackle the bills awaiting your attention. Just as you turned to leave, you heard Isaac’s voice call out to you.

“Hey!” he exclaimed, jogging over, catching his breathe. “Can i um, ask if you have a boyfriend?”