The Last Letter in the Coffee Shop

I used to sit at that corner table every Sunday morning, long before the world stirred. My journal, a steaming cappuccino, and a pen were my only companions. The café, with its dim Edison bulbs and indie music humming gently through the speakers, felt like a sanctuary—one where I could be anonymous, reflective, and still.

Until her.

It started with a mix-up. She reached for my coffee, and I grabbed hers. Our hands brushed, and we both laughed. I offered her the table, the only one by the window. She hesitated, then sat across from me. "Only until my coffee cools," she said.

She never left after that.

Her name was Lila. She was the type of person who scribbled poems in margins and found metaphors in raindrops. She always carried a red notebook—its edges worn, its cover stained with time. We never exchanged numbers, never made plans. But every Sunday, we met. Like clockwork. Like fate.

Over time, our routines merged. She’d bring almond biscotti for both of us, and I’d save her seat with a dog-eared copy of whatever novel I was reading. She hated spoilers but loved to guess endings. Once, she predicted the twist in a mystery novel halfway through and laughed for a solid five minutes, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

Our conversations ranged from trivial to existential. Favorite books, dreams of disappearing to a quiet seaside town, how certain songs felt like memories we hadn’t lived. She spoke in fragments and analogies. She said the world moved too fast, and maybe that’s why she loved our Sundays.

I never read her poetry. I asked once.

"Too raw," she said. "Too real."

And I respected that. Some things are sacred.

She listened, too. She listened when I spoke about my father’s silence growing up, about the loneliness in a crowded family, about the pressure to always have answers. She never judged. Just nodded, sometimes offering a metaphor that sounded strange at first and made perfect sense later.

Then, one Sunday, she didn’t show.

I waited. Maybe she was late. Maybe something had come up. But hours passed, and the chair across from me remained empty. I tried not to panic. People have lives, things happen.

She didn’t come the next week either. Or the next.

Each week, I still went. Ordered the same cappuccino. Brought an extra biscotti. Waited.

Three weeks later, the barista—Marc, who always wore a backward cap and remembered everyone’s drink—handed me a small package wrapped in brown paper. "She left this for you," he said, his voice quiet.

It was her red notebook.

Inside was a letter, folded into the last page.

"If you're reading this, it means I finally ran out of Sundays.

I have cancer. I’ve had it for a while now. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to see the sadness in your eyes. I didn’t want our Sundays to turn into goodbyes.

You gave me something that medicine and time couldn’t—normalcy. Peace. For those hours each week, I wasn’t a patient. I was just a girl with a notebook and a coffee, sitting across from someone who listened.

Thank you for seeing me.

The last poem is for you. It isn’t raw. It’s just real.

-L"

I read the poem. It was about windows and quiet mornings. About a man who held space for a woman breaking in silence. About how love doesn’t always need declarations. Sometimes it just needs presence.

The words curled around my chest like steam from a cup on a winter morning. I reread it twice, then once more. It felt like a conversation unfinished, a sentence left trailing.

I sit at the same table now, every Sunday. I still bring my journal. I still order a cappuccino. And I place her red notebook on the table beside me.

People sometimes ask about it. I just smile.

A few weeks ago, a young woman asked if she could share the table. "Only until my coffee cools," she said.

I smiled. "Of course."

Some stories don’t get a perfect ending. But they do get remembered.

And in remembering, they live.