Sweet heart, but it doesn't beat for me. That’s the first thing I understood about him. Not from anything he said—no, he’s always polite, always kind—but from the way his eyes drift somewhere else when he smiles. Like his thoughts belong to someone who isn’t standing in front of him holding a coffee pot.
“Morning,” he says every day.
“Morning,” I answer every day.
Black coffee. One glazed.
I don’t even have to ask anymore.
It beats softly in love, but not for me. He comes in with his friend sometimes—loud, joking, easy laughter that fills the shop like sunlight. And that’s when I hear about her. His sweetheart. “She’s giving me hell again,” he says once, shaking his head, but smiling anyway. His friend laughs. “Then why are you still with her?” He shrugs. Like, the answer is obvious. Like love is something you endure, not escape.
And I stand there, refilling mugs, pretending I’m not listening to every word like it matters more than it should. Sweet lips, I know I'll never kiss. I’ve imagined it, though. That’s the dangerous part. The way he says “thank you” is soft and distracted. The way his fingers brush the counter when he reaches for his change. The way he looks tired some mornings, like sleep didn’t come easily.
In another life, maybe I’d lean a little closer. Maybe he’d notice. But in this one? I hand him his coffee. He hands me his dime. And the space between us stays exactly as wide as it needs to be. I wipe the counter after he leaves, even when it’s already clean. The bell jingles. The door swings shut. And just like that, the world resets itself—empty stool, half-finished conversation lingering in the air.
