The Last Cup of Coffee

Today, I saw him once again.

The same coffee shop. same seat in the corner. Hunched over a journal that appeared to have been to war was the same black hoodie. His name escaped me, and perhaps that was the goal. There are those that come into your life like a whisper and go out like a shout.

Three months ago, it began. I was experiencing one of those days where you feel as though you are submerged—you are moving and thinking more slowly, and you are barely surviving. My flat felt more like a waiting room than a home, my relationship was a ghost that I continued to text, and work was eating away at what little ambition I still had.

I fled to Café Mina as a result. It was a small space with scuffed paintings, broken mugs, and a barista named Eli who never spelled my name correctly. It was flawless. Safe. Familiar.

On the first day, I sat by the window and tried to write anything in a blank notepad. However, my gaze kept straying to the corner.

He had already arrived.

He was always.

Pen skimming across paper, head down, pauses here and there as if awaiting the next idea. He always paid with precise change and only ever ordered black coffee. I noticed because, despite my best efforts to ignore myself, I notice other people.

Weeks passed. We went on with our unwritten ritual. Mid-afternoon is when I would arrive. He would be there already. We did not communicate. Never gave a nod. simply existed on the outskirts of one another.

However, his quiet was deafening. Isolation was not the feeling. It seemed deliberate. As if he were constructing I broke the spell one wet Thursday.

It had been a bad morning for me. According to my supervisor, I do not have "spark." My ex shared pictures of their engagement with a new partner. In a CVS aisle, I sobbed. I was prepared to explode by the time I arrived at the café.

As usual, he was there, writing as if it were his last.

I ripped a napkin in two on the spur of the moment and wrote:

"You appear to be a person who uses strong language."

I did not give it much thought. Before he could look up, he simply walked over, slid it onto his table, and left.

He was staring at the napkin as if it had struck him in the stomach when I looked back five minutes later. He then folded it delicately and slipped it into his journal.

He avoided looking at me.

He left the following day.

That corner seat was vacant for three weeks.

Still, I continued to turn up. I did not know where else to go, not because I was expecting him. Without his scribbling in the background, the world seemed a little more peaceful.

Then he returned today.

The same sweatshirt. The same black coffee. However, there was a gentler quality about his posture. Lighter.

When I entered, he did not give me a look. I did not even think he would recognize me.

However, a folded note was waiting on the table when I moved to my customary seat.

After hesitating, I opened it.

It said: "The first person to see me without requesting an explanation was you. I cannot explain how that saved me. I was composing a farewell note. Your quiet turned into a lifeline. Thank you.

I read it twice. But then again.

He was gone by the time I looked up. No farewell. No name.

Only the faint scribbling of recollections, the smell of coffee, and a napkin that remained in his journal.

After that, I never saw him again.

But every time I am drowning in my own stillness, I think of him and how a few undemanding words can save someone from certain death.

Sometimes our survival depends on the slightest connection.