The Same Seat Every Morning

She always sat in the same seat - third table from the left, near the window where the light filtered through at just the right angle—warm but not blinding. The coffee shop had changed over the years. The menu got fancier, the music softer. But that corner stayed the same, and so did June.

At 52, June considered herself a creature of habit. It was what people often called her with a chuckle, like it was endearing. Her coworkers joked that if someone else took her table at lunch, the universe might tilt off its axis. Her sister teased her for buying the same cardigan in five colors. But June didn’t mind. Routine was her anchor in a world that changed far too quickly.

She ordered plain coffee—never latte, never syrup—because it tasted the same every time. She wore her navy flats because they didn’t pinch. And she walked the same four blocks to work each day, even when there was a faster route.

The baristas knew her. “Hey, Miss June,” they’d say, already pouring her cup when she walked through the door. That familiarity was comforting. Predictable. Safe.

But safety came at a cost. And it had been adding up quietly for years.

June worked at a local publishing company—not the glamorous, big-house kind, but the cozy sort that printed cookbooks, church newsletters, and the occasional mystery novel from a retired schoolteacher. She’d started as an assistant in her twenties. Now she was office manager, not out of ambition, but because it was the next logical step in a path she never questioned.

She never considered leaving. Even when Carla, her best friend from the early days, left to start her own design studio.

“You could too, you know,” Carla had said once over lunch. “You’ve got the eye. Don’t you want more?”

June smiled, polite and unmoving. “I like it here.”

And she did. Or at least, she liked knowing what each day held.

But lately, things had started shifting.

It began with the coffee shop.

New management. New paint. New playlist. And worst of all—her table was gone.

“They’re putting in a community table,” the barista said apologetically. “You know, to encourage conversation.”

June stared at the long wooden monstrosity. “So I have to sit... with people?”

The barista gave a helpless shrug.

That morning, her coffee tasted the same—but everything else felt wrong. The hum of unfamiliar voices around her felt like static.

At work, there were whispers of change. A new company buying them out. A merger.

“Don’t worry,” said Harold from accounting. “We’re the backbone. They won’t touch us.”

June didn’t find that reassuring.

The days that followed were quieter. People updated résumés in secret. Carla called one night—her voice breathless with joy.

“I’m getting married! Small ceremony, backyard vibe. Will you come?”

June hesitated. She hadn’t seen Carla in nearly two years. She didn’t drive that far anymore. The last time Carla invited her over, June declined—traffic, she said. Bad weather, she added.

“I’d love to,” June said now. “Of course.”

That night, she sat on her sofa, wrapped in the same blanket she’d had since college, the same mug in hand, the same TV show on loop. She tried to remember the last time she did something unfamiliar, not out of obligation but by choice.

The thought made her uncomfortable. She poured more coffee into her chipped mug.

The next morning, without thinking, she turned left instead of right.

She passed a new bakery. A florist. A bookstore with crooked shelves in the window. She saw a girl dancing in headphones at the crosswalk. Everything felt different.

Her legs itched from the shift in routine, but something inside her fluttered.

She didn’t transform overnight. She still preferred her seat by the window. But she began stepping sideways instead of forward.

She tried a cappuccino. She hated it.

She signed up for a single painting class on a whim. She was terrible. She went back again anyway.

She joined Carla’s book club, sitting quietly at the edge. At first, she said nothing. Then one evening, someone mentioned the feeling of losing a parent. June found herself nodding. Then speaking. Then not wanting to stop.

The community table at the coffee shop never grew on her. But she noticed the teenage girl beside her every morning, typing fast on a laptop.

“Do you always sit here?” June asked one day.

The girl looked surprised, then smiled. “Yeah. I’m Lila. Architecture student.”

June introduced herself. They didn’t talk every day. But sometimes, they did.

The merger went through.

June was offered a choice: stay, but in a reduced role, or accept a generous severance.

She took the severance.

It wasn’t like her. Everyone said so.

She used the money to take a graphic design course. Just to see.

She dusted off her old sketchpad. Reached out to Carla. Started helping her part-time with freelance projects.

Some days she hated the uncertainty. She missed the printer jam and Harold’s post-it notes. But she also liked the way her days unfolded without predictability. The way her morning coffee tasted better after a walk through the park.

On her 53rd birthday, she sat in a new café, one she'd never noticed before. It was louder, more chaotic. Her seat wobbled slightly. A baby wailed near the counter.

And yet, she smiled.

The waitress handed her a piece of lemon cake with a candle in it. “Your friend ordered this,” she said. “Said you don’t like surprises, but she’s hoping you’ll make an exception.”

June laughed. Carla always had good timing.

One afternoon, Lila waved at her from a corner seat. “We saved you a spot!”

June hesitated. The sun didn’t hit quite right over there. It wasn’t her usual.

But the laughter, the warmth, the invitation in Lila’s grin—something about it felt just familiar enough.

June sat down.

On her fridge at home, she had a small magnet that read: “The comfort zone is beautiful—but nothing ever grows there.” She didn’t remember buying it. But every time she saw it now, she smiled.

Because she understood, finally, that familiarity isn’t the enemy of joy.

But neither is change.

Sometimes, it just takes a new route to remember that.

Even if it’s only four blocks longer