The Last Cup of Coffee

Mara always ordered the same thing: black coffee, splash of oat milk, extra cinnamon sprinkled on top. She’d sip it slowly by the window of the tiny café on Elm Street, pretending to read a book while watching the world spin by outside.

This morning, though, the coffee tasted different — maybe because it was her last cup here.

After four years in this city, Mara was leaving. She’d packed her life into three battered suitcases waiting by her apartment door. A new job. A new coast. A new chance to figure herself out.

But first, she needed this cup of coffee.

The bell above the café door jingled as someone came in. Mara didn’t look up at first — she was tracing the swirl of cinnamon on the lid with her fingertip, memorizing its warmth.

“Mara?”

She turned. And there he was. Evan.

He hadn’t changed much — still wore his hair too long, still had that lopsided grin that made her chest ache a little. She hadn’t seen him in eight months, not since they’d agreed to “take a break” that turned into radio silence.

“I heard you were leaving,” Evan said, slipping into the seat across from her without asking. He set his own coffee down — plain black, no cinnamon, just like always.

“Yeah,” Mara said. Her voice felt small in the morning bustle of the café. “Flight’s tonight.”

He nodded, fiddled with the cardboard sleeve on his cup. She wondered if he’d come here every day too, hoping to run into her. Or maybe it was just coincidence — the universe nudging two stubborn people back into the same orbit one last“So… new job?” he asked.

“In Portland. Better hours, more money. Rainier, though.” She tried to laugh, but it stuck in her throat.

“That’s good. You always liked the rain.”

They sat there, the silence stretching and settling like dust between old pages. Mara wanted to say something meaningful — something that would wrap up the loose ends they’d left hanging when they walked away from each other last fall.

Instead, she asked, “How’s Daisy?”

His face softened. “She’s good. Still chews on my shoes when she’s mad at me.”

Mara smiled. She missed that dog — missed Sunday mornings tangled up in blankets, Daisy curled at their feet.

“You know,” Evan said slowly, “I thought about calling you. A lot.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “Thought maybe you were better off without me messing things up again.”

Mara looked down at her coffee. The cinnamon swirl had melted into a soft, muddy spiral.

“Maybe you should’ve let me decide that,” she said.

He reached across the table, brushing her fingers with his. The touch was warm, familiar, and it made something uncoil in her chest.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

She thought about her packed bags, the plane ticket tucked into her coat pocket, the blank page waiting for her in a city where no one knew her name.

“I don’t know yet,” she said honestly. “But I want to be.Evan nodded. He squeezed her hand, then let it go.

“Then that’s enough,” he said.

She finished her coffee. The last sip tasted like cinnamon and memories she wasn’t sure she wanted to carry, but maybe they’d follow her anyway — tucked between the folds of sweaters and books in her suitcases.

When she stood to leave, Evan stood too. They didn’t promise anything. Didn’t say they’d call, or write, or try again. Sometimes, the cleanest endings are the ones with no tidy bow.

Outside, Mara breathed in the city’s winter air one last time. She pulled her coat tighter and stepped into the morning, a little lighter than when she’d sat down — her last cup of coffee still warm in her chest.