Extra Shot of Fate

I sit in coffee shops

like I’m waiting for fate to finish brewing.

Back corner, warm cup,

two chairs just in case.

I pretend to read

but I’m people-watching with purpose.

Looking for someone

to drop their heart on my table

by accident.

I want a meet-cute.

Rom-com real.

Like maybe you spill your latte on my laptop

and we both cry a little—

but laugh even more.

And somehow that moment

becomes a memory

that never stops steeping.

I want it awkward,

like the wrong name on your cup

but the right one in my mouth

an hour later.

I want it simple.

Two hands reaching for the same sugar packet.

Two smiles held too long.

Two lives colliding over caffeine and coincidence.

Baristas don't know it,

but they hand me hope with every drink.

"Name for the order?"

I almost say: Yours.

I almost say: Someone real this time.

I want a meet-cute

that doesn't just live in screenplays.

I want glances that feel like dialogue.

I want sparks to fly

without needing WiFi.

I want someone to ask,

"Mind if I sit here?"

and mean forever.

Because I’ve saved this seat

like it’s sacred.

Left it open

like my chest.

So if you're out there—

wandering with your coffee and your chaos—

know that I’m here.

Ready.

Foamed heart in hand.